SessRin (platonic) – 251 words
The sky is indigo darkening with heavy clouds. "Ick, a storm," Rin says, burrowing into his side like she belongs there, which she doesn't. "Rin doesn't like rain."
He still doesn't understand why she likes to touch, to loop her arms around his neck, to snuggle her head into his shoulders, to sleep all curled up against his side, to stick to him like a grinning burr when she can get away with it. She rarely can; he's made sure of that. "It isn't raining yet," he points out.
"I know," she says, shrugging. Her fingers find the pelt thrown over his shoulder—she's rather fond of it, and lips flattened into a stern line, he detaches her from it.
Lately, he's begun to wonders how old she is, and then how long humans live when they aren't messily slaughtered by youkai. He's never bothered to find out. Although he doubts she knows, he asks her the second question.
Her face goes very serious and she holds out her hands, fingers ticking off fingers, counting on each other, to five, past ten, and onto twenty. "Rin's mother wasn't more than that," she says. "Some live longer? There were old people in the village. But youkai killed them…" Fiercely, she shakes her head as if to clear it, nearly biting her lip. "But that won't happen," she adds, like it's an unchangeable fact, and she looks at him, eyes wide and warm.
The air smells of lightning-to-come, and he cannot look away.