Ookami-san Wa Taberaretai (2K)

She sniffed the air, and her tail gave an involuntary thump against the cedar. Then she caught herself, hackles rising. “What do you want, human? Offerings? Prayers? I haven’t eaten a traveler in decades, but I’m not above making an exception.”

“It’s from the convenience store in the valley,” Takeda said, stepping closer. “The salmon one. I had one for breakfast.”

She blinked.

Takeda smiled. It was a quiet, unassuming smile, the kind that had made him a beloved teacher at the village middle school. “I’m Takeda. I cook.”

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

“Fine,” she growled, snatching the ladle from his hand. “But I’m in charge of the meat.”

He cooked for her properly after that. Not just leftovers, but real meals: katsu curry with a soft-boiled egg, nabeyaki udon in a clay pot he hauled up the mountain, even mochi she could roast over a fire. She ate with her hands, tore into meat with those impressive fangs, and sometimes—just sometimes—let out a low, rumbling sound that might have been a purr. She sniffed the air, and her tail gave

“Of course you are.”