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“At three in the morning?” Naia slapped her feet down on the floor. The pile of clothes spilled across the bedspread. She held up a black t-shirt and examined it.
“Sorry about that.” He reappeared around the corner of the bookshelf. “I had some old clothes from when I was younger that I figured would fit you a little better.”
Naia turned to address him, only for her eyes to cling to the outline of muscles in his biceps twitching as he tied back his hair.
She hated admitting it to herself, but the mortal’s hair was attractive. Embarrassing, unappreciated daydreams floated around in her thoughts of running her fingers through what she would bet were soft, slick strands.
Ronin cracked a not-so-subtle smile at her staring. She hurried to casually sweep her gaze over his outfit instead. It was the first time she’d paid attention, but now that she thought about it, his color of choice was consistently black. Loose trousers, fitting around his long legs, and a baggy shirt. His bright turquoise slippers, decorated in unicorns, broke up all the black.
Naia ran her fingers through her long silver hair, grinning down at them. “Akane?”
Ronin wiggled the toes of the slippers, lowering his arms back down to his sides. “Every Christmas. One pair for the house on the island, another for here in my apartment. It’s a part of our culture not to wear shoes indoors.”
“I know. I’ve read copious amounts of books, and I came across the information once,” Naia said.
She didn’t know which gesture was more endearing—Akane making sure he had plenty of slippers, or Ronin wearing the bubbly design without complaint. Regardless, it made her fond of him even more and she hated that.
“Why do you wear pants—black, no less—when the temperature outside is excruciating?” she asked.
“I’m cold-natured, so I am always freezing—even in the dog days of summer. What about you?” His eyes flitted down her legs, shielded by the leggings, where the hem of his oversized shirt met her thighs.
Unsure how to cope with the current of electric coursing underneath her skin from the way he looked at her, she fixated on the overshirt in the pile of clothes on his bed.
She held it up, pretending to admire it. “Hot-natured.”
“Not that.” He sat down on the bed beside the clothes, lifting his chin to gaze up at her. The brown specks in his eyes reminded her of caramel drizzled on top of melted chocolate. “I mean, what kind of clothes do you like?”
She lowered the overshirt but kept it in her hands for comfort. Something to distract herself with, or to avert her attention to if need be. “Why are you asking?”
“It’s my day off, and I figure you need clothes if you are going to be staying with me all week.”
She nibbled on her lip for a long moment, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t know how to answer your question.”
She’d never given much thought to the clothes she wore, other than despising gowns and preferring trousers. In terms of style and color, she had no specific opinion, and the lack of one bugged her.
Ronin tilted his head, the motion carrying some pieces of his hair into his eyes. “What do you like to do?”
She thought about it, only to come to a dead end again. “I don’t know.”
“What kind of music do you like?”
Her mouth opened, brain stuttering for a response. “Jazz, I suppose.”
“What about a favorite color?”
She hesitated, gaze flipping around the room to grab onto as many colors as she could. The gray curtains, the white painted walls, his black pants. She rubbed the olive green overshirt between her index fingertip and thumb. “Green.”
Ronin stood from the bed. “Doesn’t sound too convincing.”
“I was always told what to wear, what to like, how to act.” It came out hushed, equally embarrassed as she was ashamed by it. An eight-century-old goddess who did not know such trivial details about herself. Pathetic.
Ronin stared at her for a beat before picking up the folded clothes from the bed and handing them to her. “Then let’s spend today figuring out what you like.”
The clothing store was on the opposite side of the city. The same side as his brewery. Or the non-magical side.
The store had floor-to-ceiling glass windows and white racks, shiny frames with floral art, and smelled of sweet spices and orange blossoms.
From the copious outfits she’d tried on, one thing was certain: Naia despised bright, flashy colors. Neutrals attracted her the most. Clothes calm on the eye, yet soft and pleasant on the skin, were a must.
