Takeda set down the pot. Then he did something very foolish. He reached out and touched her ear.
“And a heated blanket,” he added. “And a refrigerator full of meat. And I’ll cook for you every single day.”
Ookami-san lifted her head, eyes blazing. “I am a wild god. I do not go home with—“
Her golden eyes studied him. “No. There isn’t.” Winter came early that year. The first snow buried the path, and the village council warned Takeda not to climb the mountain alone. But he thought of her ears drooping in the cold, her tail tucked between her legs for warmth, and he went anyway. Ookami-san wa Taberaretai
“Who’s there?” she snarled, baring a canine that was, admittedly, very impressive.
Ookami-san choked on a fish cake. “I am NOT— we never— you didn’t even ask —“
The wolf-goddess—for what else could she be?—looked down at the crumbly mess at her feet. Her ears flattened. “I didn’t drop it. I abandoned it. It was subpar.” Takeda set down the pot
“So,” he said, pulling a small bento box from his backpack, “I made too much lunch. Ginger pork with a honey-soy glaze, tamagoyaki, and pickled daikon. It’s not subpar.”
“You’re not going to sleep,” he said firmly. “You’re coming home with me.”
“I’m trying to feed you,” Takeda said. “There’s a difference.” “And a heated blanket,” he added
Perhaps both.
“Takeda-sensei,” the principal said weakly, “is that… a wolf?”
And if you visited the little house at the edge of the village on a snowy night, you might see two shadows through the window: one human, one lupine, curled together under a kotatsu, a half-eaten stew between them, and hear a low, contented rumble that was either a purr or a laugh.
“I’ll still bite you,” she warned.
She let him carry her down the mountain, limp and warm in his arms, her nose buried in the crook of his neck. The village children saw them pass and whispered. The old women at the shrine crossed themselves. But Takeda just walked, one hand cradling her head, the other holding the nikujaga pot. That spring, the school principal found Takeda in the staff kitchen, stirring a huge pot of zoni while a silver-haired woman in an oversized sweater sat on the counter, feet dangling, stealing pieces of kamaboko .