By the time Jin snapped back from his thoughts, the sky over Windmill Village was full night, shadows stretching long between the wooden houses.
Makino lowered the invoice, brows lifted.
"You really are ten?" she asked, more puzzled than surprised.
Jin snorted. "Yeah. Ten. Hard to believe, huh?"
He flexed a shoulder under the black windbreaker. The scars across his arms peeked out for a second — not fresh, but very real.
Her eyes caught on them, just for a breath.
"Alright," she said finally. "You can stay. Just don't cause trouble."
"Trouble only finds me if it's suicidal," Jin said dryly. Then, softer: "Thanks."
Later that night
Bar emptied out, last drunks stumbling home.
Jin helped stack stools, wiped tables, flicked stray bottlecaps into a bucket.
Makino dried glasses, her motions practiced, almost graceful.
"Why Windmill Village?" she asked after a while. Calm, not prying — just conversation over work.
Jin kept wiping, voice low.
"Been training in the wilds too long. Figured I'd sleep under a real roof before I forget what walls look like."
He smirked faintly. "Merchant captain vouched for this place. Said it had good food and quiet drunks."
"You're only ten," Makino pressed. "Don't you have family?"
Jin's rag slowed, then kept moving.
"Father died when I was six. Out on the water — storm cracked the hull like dry bark."
A breath. "Mother died giving birth to me. Haven't got anyone else."
No sigh, no dramatic pause — just facts laid out like scars on skin.
Makino set the last glass down gently.
"Sorry," she murmured. Not pitying — just honest, human sympathy.
Jin flicked a bit of sawdust off the table.
"Don't be. It was years ago. I made it this far."
Offer of food
She changed the topic, as people who've felt pain do.
"As thanks for the help, let me cook you something," she offered. "It won't be fancy, but—"
Jin cut in, voice rough but grateful. "I won't say no to a hot meal. Better than cold boar meat with half the fur still on."
She actually laughed — quiet, warm, no nervous blush.
"Alright, mercenary boy. Wait here."
Food & firelight
Smell of grilled pork and ginger hit first, rich enough to make Jin's mouth water before the plate even landed.
He didn't waste words: picked up chopsticks, tore in. Meat tender, sauce sharp-sweet.
"Fuck," he said around a mouthful, no apology. "That's good. Way too good for half-drunk sailors."
Makino just watched, a faint smile tugging her mouth. "I cook for everyone the same."
"Yeah?" Jin wiped his mouth with his sleeve, uncaring. "Lucky bastards."
"You're not eating?" he asked, voice calmer.
"I had something earlier," she said. "Besides… it's nice to see someone really enjoy it."
Jin met her gaze, then looked away — not shy, just unused to it.
"Most folks don't look at me like that," he muttered. "Like I'm not trouble waiting to happen."
Makino tilted her head. "And are you?"
"Trouble finds me," Jin said bluntly. "But I don't go looking for it."
He stabbed another piece of pork. "If it comes, it gets its fucking teeth kicked in. That's all."
Quiet talk
For a minute they just ate, wood creaking softly under candlelight.
Makino spoke, voice low. "My parents died too. But they left me the bar — and memories worth keeping. That's enough to stay warm."
Jin glanced up. "Guess we're alike, then. Both stubborn enough to keep breathing."
She smiled, not soft but real. "Exactly."
Jin's hand slowed on the chopsticks.
"You know," he admitted, "in the woods, it was always just me and Kuma — big gray bastard of a bear."
A dry laugh. "First time in years I've sat at a table and not had to watch my back every second."
Makino listened without interrupting. Not motherly pity — just the easy patience of someone who knew quiet had its own weight.
Small sparks of warmth
Jin drained his cup, a thin bead of sake running down his chin.
"Shit, sorry," he muttered, wiping it. "Haven't drunk real stuff in a while."
Makino poured him another, unbothered.
"Don't apologize. Drink slow, though — it hits harder than it smells."
"Advice taken," Jin said, lips quirking.
For a heartbeat, the candle flickered between them, shadows playing across scar and smile alike.
Jin wasn't blind.
He noticed the soft dip of her collar when she leaned to pour, the gentle rise of her chest as she breathed.
And yeah, a corner of his mind — the corner still wired like any teenage bastard — whispered: fuck, she's pretty.
But he locked it down. Warm, sure. Safe, maybe. But don't get stupid.
To tomorrow
He tapped his cup gently against hers.
"To staying alive," Jin said, voice rough but sincere.
Makino matched it, glass clinking softly. "And to finding a little peace along the way."
"Peace," Jin repeated, almost like tasting a new word. Then he smirked. "Never thought I'd toast to that."
For the first time in years, Jin felt the urge to let his guard slip. Just for a night.
No wolves, no blades in the dark. Just grilled pork, cheap sake, and someone who didn't flinch from his scars.
Not bad, Windmill Village, he thought, setting down the empty cup.
Not fucking bad at all.
This story is inspired from various fanfics i have read from around the world so if you find any similarities please dont mind . Thank you
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T/N :
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