Chapter Text
Sesshoumaru did not care for neighbors.
He barely tolerated people as it was, and the idea of meaningless small talk over property lines and trash collection schedules made his skin crawl. If he desired tedious conversation, he would engage with his coworkers—those uninspired mortals who persisted in believing he relished their presence.
He did not.
So when the house across the narrow street was sold, Sesshoumaru did what any rational being of his stature would do: nothing.
He offered no greetings, no empty smiles. He did not bake cookies, nor did he extend offers of assistance. Instead, he observed from the sanctuary of his home office as the woman arrived, flanked by cardboard boxes and chaotic energy. Mismatched furniture littered the driveway, while an overly enthusiastic playlist echoed off the suburban sprawl. He considered filing a noise complaint before the first box even crossed her threshold.
Kagome Higurashi.
That was the name fluttering on the lips of the neighborhood’s busybodies and would-be suitors. Too bright. Too loud. Too much.
Naturally, the neighborhood adored her.
The older women found her charming, the bachelor set tripped over themselves to lend a hand, and even the neighborhood children flocked to her like ducklings imprinting on the first mother they saw. Even the bitter old man on the corner—the one who yelled at joggers and stole unattended packages—offered her a rare nod of approval.
Sesshoumaru, however, remained unbothered.
Until she made herself impossible to ignore.
Because his first real encounter with Kagome Higurashi was not a polite wave or a stiff introduction. It was not over hedges or recycling bins.
No.
It was him, at 11:04 PM, seated behind his laptop, growling low in his throat as another formula refused to cooperate.
And then—movement.
A glance, nothing more than instinct. His golden eyes flicked to the window, seeking quiet in the night.
What he found stole the breath from his lungs.
Through sheer curtains, thin as a whisper, Kagome Higurashi reclined on her bed, her nightgown slipping perilously off one shoulder. She was bathed in moonlight, legs parted just so, fingers disappearing between her thighs with slow, deliberate care.
Sesshoumaru stilled.
His grip on the armrest tightened as something primal surged beneath his skin. Surely—surely—this was a mistake. An oversight. She would come to her senses, realize the vulnerability of her position, and draw the curtains.
She did not.
No, Kagome—reckless, insufferable Kagome—continued, utterly unaware of her newfound audience. The soft curl of her lips, the languid roll of her hips, the breathless sigh that fogged the cool air of her bedroom—all of it commanded his attention.
Sesshoumaru’s jaw tensed, muscles coiling tight as steel.
He should look away.
He should return to his work, close the blinds, meditate, do something befitting the daiyoukai he was. Yet his body betrayed him. His gaze locked onto the slow, sinful choreography of her hands and the soft tremor of her thighs.
He was no voyeur.
He was a warrior. A ruler. A being who had long since mastered his baser instincts.
And yet—
A quiet, obscene moan slipped from her mouth, and Sesshoumaru clenched his teeth hard enough to ache.
The seconds stretched unbearably thin.
The cool glow of the moonlight cast everything in stark contrast—the dark ripple of her hair against pale sheets, the slick sheen of sweat beginning to form at her brow, the barest twitch of her toes curling into her mattress.
It was maddening.
Worse, it was beneath him.
With effort, Sesshoumaru turned away, staring blankly at his laptop, though the screen was now nothing but white noise. His pulse thrummed in his ears, and for the first time in centuries, he struggled to compose himself.
This was a singular, unfortunate accident.
Tomorrow, he would forget.
And yet—
The next night, he found himself standing by the window once more.
And the next.
And the next.
For seven nights.
By the third, he accepted it as a pattern. By the fifth, he admitted he was losing control.
Unacceptable.
He did not obsess. He did not crave. He did not succumb to base urges like some lesser creature enslaved by instinct.
This had to be exhaustion. Overwork. A lapse in judgment. He had been stretching himself too thin—endless meetings, meaningless paperwork, subordinates too foolish to complete basic tasks. He was simply tired.
That explained everything.
Except exhaustion did not explain why he noticed things no tired mind should.
The slow, sinuous way she stretched before bed, arms overhead, arching like a cat beneath the moonlight. The way her nightgown flirted with decency, ever on the verge of baring her to him entirely. The way her breath hitched—soft, gasping, vulnerable.
Indecent.
Infuriating.
And yet—enticing.
Each night, Sesshoumaru lingered longer. Each night, his restraint frayed further.
By the seventh, the truth became undeniable: he needed to take a mate.
He had delayed, convinced for too long that he stood above such mortal frailties. But now? Now, he was reduced to this—glaring at the window as if it alone were to blame for his deteriorating self-control.
He had slain demons, carved through armies, ruled with icy precision.
And yet he could not—would not—look away from her.
Another night. Another stolen glimpse. And just when he thought it could worsen no further, she whispered something.
A name?
A plea?
A low, breathy utterance meant for someone who wasn’t there?
Sesshoumaru could not decipher it, but the weight of it settled like a stone in his gut.
His claws pressed into the wood of his desk, carving faint grooves.
This had gone on long enough.
Kagome Higurashi was reckless. Foolish. Entirely unaware of the danger in tempting fate.
And if she dreamed of hands on her skin—of a man in her bed—
Then perhaps she ought to be more careful what she wished for.