Pain sparked so suddenly and sharply that Natsumi barely flinched before it was over. She didn't dare look down. Asuma's hair was beginning to dry in wild, unruly spikes; a few drops of artificial blood still caught in his dark beard stubble. He glanced up with a quick, reassuring smile, and then looked down again. Strong hands gripped her middle finger. Natsumi exhaled, set her teeth, and reached up left-handed to smooth his hair.

The second time was worse. Bone ground against itself; Natsumi caught a whimper and strangled it in her throat. Her left hand tightened blindly in his hair. He winced, but his hands didn't falter. Gentle pressure replaced pain as he taped her ring finger to the swollen middle and index, straightening them with a chiding click of his tongue when her hand tried to curl.

"You sound like my grandmother," Natsumi panted. "Are you sure you're not just going to kiss it better?" She raked her fingers through the damp tangle of his hair in a vain attempt to get it to at least spike in the same direction. Better not to think about what her own hair looked like. With a white kimono, she could probably do a frighteningly credible impression of a yūrei.

And death was really not something she needed to be thinking about right now. She shivered, and gave up straightening Asuma's hair in favor of pulling the blanket back up over his shoulder. "Dinner sounds like a reasonable payment for a life-saving. But that means you owe me at least two, doesn't it?"