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Chapter Text

The moment Tsubaki and Jiro became one, it felt as if she had finally found her heaven—a sanctuary she had always believed to be beyond her reach, especially after the emptiness of her earlier years of marriage. 

She couldn’t describe the profound satisfaction she felt as their bodies intertwined, the connection igniting an inexplicable warmth that spread through her, filling the void she had long carried. It was a sensation that left her yearning, not just for the physical closeness, but for the emotional intimacy they shared in that fleeting, perfect moment. As the yearning grew stronger, she found herself sneaking into Jiro’s bedroom more frequently, begging him to quench her thirst for him—a request that often led to them spending hours on the futon, neither willing to stop.

Oh, how she wished for that moment to never end—for Jiro to remain by her side, his arms wrapped around her body, his warm breath brushing against her skin as he softly whispered her name. She responded to his gestures with a gentle moan, hoping he would understand just how much this moment meant to her.

"Tsubaki," he whispered, his soft, deep voice heavy with emotion as he moved closer to her. Her body trembled, a shiver of anticipation coursing through her as her fingers gripped the edge of the kakebuton.

"Jiro..." Her voice was barely audible, breaking into soft, uneven gasps as she struggled to steady her racing heartbeat. He pressed closer, his warmth enveloping her, and this time he leaned forward, his lips brushing against the back of her head in a tender, lingering kiss.

“Jiro … ah!” Her head fell back as she finally reached the peak of her pleasure, beads of sweat covering her body and making her skin glisten under the soft glow of the bedroom light. She could feel the warmth of her discharge dripping between her legs and onto the bed sheet, though that didn’t stop Jiro from continuing. It was as if he were still immersed in his own world, seeking pleasure on his end.

Once it was finally over, Jiro tightened his embrace around her, kissing every spot of her bare skin with tender affection—a comforting gesture to show he was still there with her. His arms, strong and warm, felt like a shield against the world, and in that moment, Tsubaki’s life felt perfect.

A single tear rolled down her cheek—not because the moment was painful, of course. On the contrary, she was so happy that she feared the moment she cherished so much would slip away from her fingers, disappearing before she even realized it. 

She closed her eyes, her palms pressed together as she uttered a silent prayer— Kamisama, please let Jiro stay by my side forever …

Chapter Text

Tsubaki’s life had begun to brighten ever since her bond with Jiro grew stronger. Her kimono shop was thriving, attracting more customers who didn’t just visit but also placed orders. Some were even willing to pay a fortune for her unique, self-designed kimonos. While Seishiro had never recognized her talents and often criticized her, claiming that "a woman with a career reflects poorly on society—it suggests her husband isn’t fulfilling his role," Jiro would instead smile warmly and commend her for excelling at what she loved. 

Another thing she noticed was how people started to view her differently. The whispers that had followed her for years had faded, almost disappearing entirely. Perhaps they had grown weary of spreading rumors, or maybe she had quietly shown them she was more than the person they had judged her to be all along. 

It was strange how much one person’s presence could change a life. Just months ago, she had been a completely different person—quieter, more withdrawn, and disconnected from the world around her. She had been consumed by longing for someone who barely noticed her despite being her husband, and her days were shadowed by a sense of hopelessness. 

Now, however, she felt more in tune with the world around her, and everything seemed brighter than before—all because Jiro Kirisaki had entered her life. He was a man of few words, but his actions carried meaning. Not only was he attentive to her needs, but he also listened— truly listened—when she talked; whether it was about how her day had gone, the small victories she’d achieved, or even the simplest things—like the stray cat she’d fed on her way home or the flowers that had just begun to bloom. She had never expected that the young man she had only recently come to know would be the one to fill the missing piece of her heart.

The days when Seishiro wouldn’t return home for long stretches became her favorite. It was during these times that she could steal away to Jiro’s room–or invite Jiro to visit hers–spending the nights curled up beside him without a care. She never worried about being discovered, not even with the maids around. In fact, the maids seemed almost pleased to see Tsubaki spending so much time with Jiro.

“The missus seems more alive since the young Kirisaki arrived,” she overheard them whispering one day. “It’s good to see her smiling more often.”

“It’s almost like she’s a different person than before. She used to be so quiet and gloomy… but maybe she just needed a friend her age.”

“Right, Master Seishiro is much older than her. No wonder there’s always been such a noticeable gap between them … It’s different when she’s with the young Kirisaki, though.”

With the maids harboring no suspicions, Tsubaki had more freedom to come and go from Jiro’s room as she pleased. Her happiness multiplied tenfold when Jiro greeted her with his thin yet warm smile and said, “Welcome back.” In that moment, it felt as if she truly belonged there—with him, in the same room. 

It was only with Jiro that she could truly be herself. After all, he had seen her at her most vulnerable—when she stumbled, when she accidentally walked into the bathroom while he was inside. He had seen her crying, laughing, and making expressions no true Yamato Nadeshiko should have made—faces even Seishiro had never witnessed. And yet, Jiro never wavered. He continued to look at her with the same warm, welcoming gaze.

How could Tsubaki not fall for him even deeper? His gestures were like a breath of fresh air in her once-dull life, his quiet kindness painting vibrant colors into her once-gray world. She found herself longing for his presence more and more, to the point where she spent nights alone, consumed by fantasies of him, imagining his touch as her own hands wandered.

But for now, she didn’t need to worry—Jiro was right there in front of her. As he always did, he drew her into his arms, wrapping her in that familiar, comforting warmth. Their lips met in a deep, lingering kiss, sealing the moment with unspoken affection.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your studies,” she murmured as they finally—reluctantly—pulled apart, a faint strand of saliva still bridging their slightly parted lips.

He shook his head gently, giving her arm a light squeeze. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said gently. “I’m just doing something to keep myself entertained, that’s all.”

It was then that she noticed a shogi board set in front of him, the pieces arranged as if two players had been engaged in a match. “Have you been playing shogi by yourself?”

"Not always. Only when my brother isn’t around." There was a slight pause before he added, "Though he’s been away more often lately." 

There was a hint of gloom in his voice that made Tsubaki feel a twinge of guilt. Though she liked Zenji, she couldn’t deny the relief she felt whenever he was away—because that meant she didn’t have to tiptoe around Jiro.

"If you don’t mind, I can play with you," she offered, and Jiro’s head immediately snapped toward her in surprise. "I’m not the best at it, but I know a thing or two about shogi."

Back then, she had also offered to play with Seishiro, but he would always refuse her, saying how women like her wouldn’t understand a thing about shogi since it was a tactical game. The silence that followed them afterward made her slightly worried if Jiro would think the same way, but thankfully he nodded. “I look forward to it,” he said, his voice genuine with no hint of judgement. 

Since then, playing shogi had become their new routine. Whenever they found themselves alone at home, they would sneak into each other’s rooms, carrying a shogi board, and spend the rest of the day playing—until one of them fell asleep or boredom took over, leading them to seek a different kind of distraction in bed instead. 

One time, Tsubaki suggested they play shogi with a twist. For every round lost, the defeated player would remove a layer of clothing, and the game would only end when one of them had nothing left to take off. 

“I don’t think that’s fair,” Jiro said.

“Why not? Do you think I’m going to lose?”

“No, but I don’t think I’ll be able to concentrate with the thought of you being naked.” 

The words were spoken so calmly, yet they carried a weight that made her heart race and her cheeks flush. Somehow, what Jiro had just said sparked an image in her mind—one of him, unclothed. Even though she had seen him that way many times before, the thought still made her pulse quicken. 

As they began their shogi match, she was resolved to let Jiro undress first, eager to admire his body as the game unfolded. Yet, with each glance in his direction, her focus wavered. Her mind kept wandering to the contours of his muscles and the faint traces of scars hidden beneath his clothing, pulling her attention away from the board. 

Jiro, meanwhile, appeared completely absorbed in the game. His eyes never strayed from the chessboard, not even glancing at her once. For a moment, she felt a pang of disappointment, thinking she was the only one excited, only to realize later that it wasn’t actually the case; that his determination to win was driven by the anticipation of watching her gradually remove every layer of clothing.

It wasn’t fair, she thought to herself, as he defeated her for the third time in a row. She had already removed her obi and tomesode, leaving only her nagajuban and undergarments, while he remained fully clothed. She had been longing to see his bare form, but it was clear she couldn’t outmatch him so easily—not only was he a skilled shogi player, but he also seemed more determined than ever. She couldn’t help but frown as she glanced at him, her expression quietly betraying the calm facade she had tried to put on. 

Jiro caught her expression, and for some reason, she noticed the corners of his lips curl into a thin, almost imperceptible smile. Just when she thought he was about to start another match and humiliate her even further, he instead moved around the shogi board, leaning in closer, narrowing the distance between them until there was no room left for her to escape.

Then, to her surprise, he whispered right into her ear, “I give up,” his voice rasping with raw intensity. A shiver ran down her spine as his low murmur sent a wave of heat through her, her muscles tensing at the sensation. “I lost.”

“… What?” she breathed, barely able to process his words.

“I can’t even concentrate now that you’re like this,” he admitted, his fingers trailing delicately down the soft fabric of her nagajuban. She had to bite back a squeal as the light touch sent sparks across her skin. "Ever since you took off your obi, all I can think about is how to strip the rest of your clothes off faster than finishing an entire match."

Tsubaki froze, stunned, as Jiro gently drew her closer, his hand resting firmly on her waist. With his other hand, he carefully tugged aside the lapel of her kimono, exposing the delicate curve of her cleavage. Tsubaki held her breath as Jiro’s warm breath brushed against her skin, his lips following with a gentle caress so tender it made her chest feel like it might burst.

The shogi pieces lay scattered across the floor as Jiro carried her to the bed, the board cast aside, its purpose forgotten now that the two of them had found what they truly desired. As Tsubaki sank into the soft mattress, her vision filled with Jiro hovering above her, his gaze locked onto hers, intense and unwavering. 

“Jiro …”

“Tsubaki,” he murmured, his arms pulling her closer until she could hardly catch her breath. Yet, even in the near suffocation, she found a strange comfort. With their chests pressed together, she could feel the steady rhythm of their heartbeats, syncing as one, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Tsubaki drew Jiro close until their faces were mere inches apart, then pressed her lips to his in a kiss that released all her bottled-up longing. He responded with equal fervor, their lips meeting in a passionate exchange that felt as though time itself had stopped–oh, how she longed to stop time itself, to stretch this moment into an eternity with Jiro, free from the weight of an uncertain future.

But instead of wishing for the impossible, she chose to lose herself in the moment, letting everything else fade away. As long as Jiro was there beside her, nothing else mattered.

Chapter Text

It was said that when one is in love, their beauty becomes enhanced: their skin glows, their eyes sparkle, and their smile seems ever-present. This was not only because they sought to maintain their appearance for the sake of their beloved but also because their emotions deeply influenced their physical state.

Seishiro had never realized how true it was until he witnessed it himself—how Tsubaki, his wife, had changed so significantly after three years of marriage. The woman he had once considered dull and unattractive had suddenly bloomed into the most radiant person in the room, and he found himself unable to tear his eyes away from her.

Tsubaki had always been beautiful, that much was certain, but her beauty felt significantly different from when he married her three years ago. Back then, her beauty had a colder quality, like that of a porcelain doll. Even though everyone admired her, Seishiro had never felt compelled to adore her–until then.

He noticed how her face seemed brighter than ever, like a full moon in a dark sky. Her dark hair looked smoother than he remembered, with loose strands framing her face perfectly. And her lips … had they always been that rosy? Regardless, he felt an irresistible urge to touch her, to savor her beauty with more than just his eyes. He couldn’t help but wonder if the figure beneath the delicate folds of the kimono would be just as enchanting, if not more so. 

It was strange, Seishiro thought to himself. He had never felt even the slightest hint of attraction toward his wife until that moment. In fact, he had always made a point of keeping his distance from her, dismissing her as nothing more than a nuisance. On one hand, she was always too quiet and reserved, making the atmosphere feel dull. On the other hand, she persistently tried to win his heart with clumsy yet earnest advances that he always found exasperating—from preparing mediocre meals to visiting him at the hospital and interfering with his work. 

Come to think of it, it had been a while since Tsubaki had visited him at the hospital. Had this happened much earlier, he would have felt relieved. However, a strange sense of longing now filled him, and he found himself expecting her presence more and more with each passing day. 

As strange as it felt, he began to crave her presence more and more, the longing deepening with each passing day, slowly turning into an obsession. He made a silent promise to himself; that he would, without fail, reclaim the flower he had once left behind. He had always succeeded in everything he set his mind to, and he was sure this would be no different. After all, Tsubaki was still, and would always be, his lawfully-wedded wife.

.

.

Seishiro entered his office to find a woman wearing a white nurse uniform waiting for him. It was none other than his ex-girlfriend—the woman he had always longed for instead of Tsubaki, the one he had intended to spend his entire life with, had his parents not forced him into the arranged marriage he had loathed so deeply.

Usually, he would greet the woman with a smile, pulling her into a hug and pressing a kiss to her lips. He had always done so, even when Tsubaki was present, merely to make her realize she never had a place in his heart. Lately, however, Seishiro felt different. Somehow, that woman didn’t seem as attractive as before. He found himself comparing her to Tsubaki, realizing how his ex-girlfriend’s beauty paled in comparison to that of his current wife.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“To see you, of course,” the woman replied, a frown forming between her eyebrows. “You never asked that kind of question before. Do you not want to see me?”

“I’m busy,” he said curtly, walking past her without offering a hug. “You should return to your duties as well.”

To be honest, he had been expecting Tsubaki to be there, greeting him with her usual soft smile and a neatly packed bento box. He never really liked her cooking and had told her to stop making them for him, yet now he found himself wondering if he could ask her to prepare one—just for an excuse to see her again.

He heard the woman’s unsatisfied scoff before she left the room, slamming the door shut behind her. The sound echoed in the quiet space, and it struck him—Tsubaki had never done anything like that before. She always left in silence, composed and graceful, embodying the refined lady she was.

Right. Tsubaki had always been the embodiment of a yamato nadeshiko—a perfect housewife. It was one of the reasons his parents had insisted on arranging a marriage with her. How had he not noticed it before? Why had he been taking her presence for granted? 

Regardless of how he had felt toward her back then, he knew he wanted her now. Unlike before, he didn’t just want to admire her from afar—he wanted to possess her. He longed to hold her in his arms, to admire her beauty up close, reminding her that she had been, and forever would be, his wife. 

Chapter Text

Jiro returned home from his long day of studies at the university just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The warm glow of the house lights spilled through the windows, a stark contrast to the deepening twilight outside, while a crisp chill settled in the evening air. 

While he had always enjoyed the time he spent burying his face in medical books, today had been exceptionally exhausting, especially since he had to visit the hospital where Seishiro worked for one of his practical lectures. Although the doctor was his and his brother’s benefactor, Jiro couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable around him, which perhaps explained why he felt even more exhausted today. 

Perhaps it was partly because Jiro knew how rotten he was deep down—how the kind and caring doctor everyone admired was nothing more than a carefully crafted facade. Or perhaps it was because he bore the weight of the pain Tsubaki had carried silently for years, now pressing heavily on his own shoulders.

As he took off his shoes and placed them neatly on the shoe rack, Jiro was already envisioning a peaceful night in his room: a nice dinner, a warm bath, and then slumping onto the bed to sleep soundly until the next day.

But as he made his way toward the dining room, Zenji stepped into his path. His brother was already dressed in his home kimono, the usual ease in his expression replaced by a deep frown. "We need to talk," Zenji said, his voice unusually grim.

Jiro stared back at him in confusion but waited for Zenji to continue. Zenji gestured for him to take a seat on the sofa while he positioned himself at the other end of the coffee table. There was a brief pause before he finally spoke, his tone calm yet loaded with suspense. "I know what you’ve been doing."

It took Jiro a split second to fully grasp what Zenji was implying. The only sounds filling the silence afterward were the steady ticking of the clock and the pounding of his own heartbeat, each beat amplifying the tension in the room. Instead of questioning his brother, Jiro chose to remain silent, his gaze steady, waiting for Zenji to continue.

“You do understand that Master Seishiro is our benefactor, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“And you understand that the person you’ve been having an affair with is his wife, don’t you?” Zenji’s voice was low, yet his words hit like a thunderclap. 

This time, Jiro could only nod, his eyes avoiding his brother’s gaze. 

The elder Kirisaki let out an exasperated sigh as he massaged the bridge of his nose. “I want you to stop,” he said, his usually gentle gaze now sharp enough to pierce through Jiro’s chest. “If Master Seishiro ever finds out about this …” 

“Are you going to tell him?” Jiro asked, his voice tinged with anxiety. 

“Of course not,” Zenji replied, his tone firm but measured. “But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to keep this from you forever.” His gaze flickered toward the dining room, where Tsubaki was likely seated at this moment. “Even if the Missus agreed to this, that still doesn’t give you the right to continue.”

Jiro’s gaze dropped to the floor, his fists trembling at his sides. Of all people, Zenji should have understood better than anyone that leaving Tsubaki in Seishiro’s hands would mean condemning her to suffering. It wouldn’t be right to push her away when she sought his comfort. 

Zenji let out another sigh and gestured for Jiro to enter the dining room, where everyone else was waiting. Jiro followed, his chest tightening at the sight of Tsubaki seated beside Seishiro. It was such a rare occurrence for his benefactor to join them for a meal that the sight felt almost surreal—made even more unsettling by how much attention Seishiro seemed to be paying to Tsubaki, far more than usual.

He was tempted to intervene, especially as he noticed how uncomfortable Tsubaki seemed with the unusual arrangement. Yet, he swallowed his feelings and seated himself in the chair across from the married couple, silently hoping his emotions wouldn’t betray him.

.

.

Tsubaki couldn’t help but notice the stark differences among the household members as they sat together for dinner, the most striking of all being her husband’s attitude toward her. Not only had he willingly come home under the pretense of seeing her—something he had rarely done before—but he was also unusually attentive. After years of enduring his distant and cold demeanor, the sight of him acting warm and intimate felt more unsettling than comforting, leaving her with a growing unease she couldn’t shake.

The other thing that concerned her was how unusually quiet Jiro was. Sure, he had always been the quietest one in the house, but his silence this time felt different—heavier, as if something was weighing on his mind. He barely engaged in the conversation Zenji tried to spark at the table, often appearing lost in his own thoughts. What bothered her most, however, was how he seemed to avoid her gaze, as though he was deliberately trying to distance himself from her.

Had it been just the two of them in the room, she would have asked him right away—she might have even done something to ease the stress within him, whatever the reason was. But with Seishiro sitting by her side, she couldn’t even bring herself to call for his name. 

As she stole occasional glances at Jiro, she wondered if she could slip out of her room unnoticed by Seishiro and offer Jiro the consolation he so clearly needed. 

“Thank you for the food,” Jiro suddenly said, pressing his palms together over his chest before excusing himself.

“Are you not going to eat more, Jiro?” Seishiro asked, glancing at him with mild concern. “There’s still plenty of food left on the table.”

Tsubaki silently wished for the same—that Jiro would stay in the dining room with them just a little longer, at least until she finished her own meal. But Jiro politely declined Seishiro’s offer, his eyes still avoiding Tsubaki as he rose from his seat and left the room. Her gaze lingered on his back until he disappeared from sight, a quiet heaviness settling over her.

Chapter Text

Jiro was deeply engrossed in his medical books in his bedroom when he heard a soft knock on the door. At first, he wondered if it was Zenji, coming to lecture him yet again—and he nearly considered pretending to be asleep—until his eyes caught the silhouette of a familiar figure against the paper door.

Without a second thought, he rushed to the door and slid it open, revealing a timid-looking Tsubaki. She hesitated, her eyes carefully studying Jiro, and he couldn't help but wonder what was on her mind. 

"Do you need help with something?" he asked, just as Tsubaki simultaneously uttered, "Are you not feeling well?"

The two of them froze, momentarily stunned by how in sync they were, before breaking into laughter. Their soft chuckles rippled through the room, melting away the once-icy tension between them.

“I’m fine,” Jiro finally replied after the laughter died down. “Just a little tired. You shouldn’t have come all this way just to see me, Missus.” The words came out much colder than he expected. 

A flicker of pain crossed Tsubaki’s eyes the moment he addressed her so formally, but she quickly masked it with a gentle smile. “I can’t just sit still when you look so down,” she said softly. “Would you like me to brew you some tea? It might help you relax a little.”

As much as the offer tempted him, he was immediately reminded by both Zenji’s warning and the sight of Tsubaki sitting beside Seishiro. He couldn’t let the master of the house witness this sight, or else ... 

"You should return to your room," he told her. "You’re not supposed to be here. Master Seishiro must be waiting for you." He shifted his gaze just in time to catch the pained expression that flickered across Tsubaki’s face. A darker, more selfish part of him ached to reach for her, to pull her into his room and keep her by his side. But what right did he have when he was nothing more than a mere freeloader in this house?

When he returned his gaze to her, it seemed like she was about to say something, but no words left her parted lips. Instead, she simply nodded and excused herself before leaving the pavilion. Jiro could only watch her retreating figure, despite the urge gnawing at him to run after her.

.

.

Tsubaki’s attempts to approach Jiro were continuously rejected day after day, and with each passing moment, the pain in her chest only grew. She had tried to sit with him during meals or visit his room at night, but he would always send her away with the same words: “Your husband wouldn’t like that.”

But despite the constant rejection and the pain she had repeatedly inflicted upon herself, she didn’t want to give up just yet. There had to be a logical reason for Jiro’s sudden change in attitude, and she was certain it had something to do with Seishiro. After more than three years of marriage, she should have played the role of an obedient wife and stood by Seishiro’s side. But how could she do that when her true safe haven was Jiro?

Jiro, however, was more persistent than she had expected. He began spending more time at the university—sometimes even sleeping on campus or at the hospital—making their encounters increasingly rare. It was evident that he was trying a little too hard to avoid her, and her heart ached all over. The only time they crossed paths was when he briefly returned home to pack his clothes before fleeing again, and Tsubaki couldn't help but notice how increasingly pale and worn out he looked.

Just as she began to wonder how much longer he could endure it, she returned from her kimono shop one day to find the maids informing her that Jiro had already come home—though he was currently bedridden with a cold. Without a second thought, Tsubaki rushed toward the back pavilion and reached Jiro’s bedroom. Her heart sank as soon as she saw him lying on the futon, his usually pale face now flushed with fever, beads of sweat trickling down his temple. He had just finished his soup when Tsubaki entered the room. His feverish eyes widened at the sight of her.

“Missus? What are you doing here?” he asked. It seemed like the wall he had built up over days crumbled away under the weight of his fever.

"I heard you’ve been sick," she said. She carefully approached Jiro and kneeled by his bedside, a wave of relief washing over her when he didn’t seem to mind her presence. "How are you feeling?"

“Much better,” he said, though his appearance proved otherwise. His voice was still hoarse, and his already messy hair looked even more disheveled from the sweat. “I should be fine by tomorrow.”

"You must be tired after working so hard these days.”

“Not really. I’m a medical student, after all. It’s only normal for me to put in extra hours of studying before I finally enter that field.”

Tsubaki didn’t like that nonchalant response. How could he torture himself like this and still consider it ‘normal’? "Why did you suddenly push yourself so much?” she asked, inadvertently raising her voice. “You of all people should understand how important it is to take care of your health..." Her voice trailed off as her gaze met Jiro’s. They hadn't seen each other in a while, and here she was, already nagging the poor man when he was sick. She quickly mumbled an apology, her face heating up with embarrassment.

Jiro let out a soft sigh before speaking. "I'm sorry for making you worry, but I'm fine now." He wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his gaze drifting anxiously toward the sliding door. "But you shouldn’t waste your time over here—"

Before he could finish, Tsubaki had already reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. His once unfocused gaze snapped back to her, widening in surprise.

"Please don’t send me away again," she pleaded, her grip tightening with each word. "At least this time … let me stay by your side."

“You could catch the sickness from me …”

“I don’t mind.”

“Master Seishiro won’t like that—”

“He’s not home right now. It’s just the two of us.” 

Tsubaki leaned in closer until her face was only inches from Jiro’s. She watched as his already flushed face deepened into a darker shade of red—clearly not just from his fever. Her fingers gently trailed down his heated cheek, noticing how his jawline felt more pronounced than she remembered. He must have lost a lot of weight, she thought to herself. 

Yet, even in his current state, his charm remained undiminished. And as selfish as it was, the thought of being the only one to see him in such a vulnerable state filled her with quiet joy. She allowed herself to take in his features, as if she had forgotten how he looked—the way his messy hair fell, the depth of his eyes, the curve of his nose, the shape of his lips … the very thought that she had endured days without him now seemed beyond comprehension.

“Please, Jiro,” she whispered to him again. “Just let me stay with you a little longer. I don’t mind if you don’t want to talk to me, just … let me sit here with you.”

Before he could think, Jiro pulled her into his embrace, his arms wrapping so tightly around her that she could barely breathe. It all happened so fast, yet in that moment, nothing else seemed to matter.

Chapter Text

The moment Jiro held Tsubaki in his arms, everything in his life felt perfect. He had missed her so terribly that the pain of longing far surpassed the fever that had ravaged him. He had missed her so much that he had forced himself to stay away, knowing that once she returned to his world, he wouldn’t be able to contain himself—just like now.

He buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in the familiar, sweet scent he had long yearned for. Her hair was just as soft as he remembered, and the warmth of her chest pressed against his brought him a comfort he wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. She weakly squirmed under his arms, but then she returned his embrace, her slender arms gently enveloping his body.

He closed his eyes, allowing the comfort to course through his veins. It almost felt as if Tsubaki’s presence had healed his fever—his once heavy body now felt lighter, and the throbbing in his head had faded away. Jiro tightened his embrace around Tsubaki just to assure himself that it was not a dream; that she was truly there with him. It was when she softly whispered into his ear that he knew everything was real.

He could feel her heartbeat pounding against his own as their chests pressed together, the warmth of her body sending a shiver down his spine. The softness of her breasts against him stirred a desire for more than just an embrace. He moved his hand to the lapel of her kimono as he pressed his lips to her neck, his touch gentle yet lingering. Every brush of his lips against her skin sent a thrill through him, and he savored every second of it.

The moment he allowed himself to indulge in the pleasure of touching her, the restraints within him shattered instantly, and he could no longer hold himself back. Like a wild beast, he pinned her down on the futon, his lips trailing fervent kisses along her skin as he loosened her kimono, exposing more of her to his hungry gaze. The more he savored her, the more insatiable his hunger grew. Each moment only deepened his desire, fueling an unrelenting craving for more—more of her presence, more of her essence, more of everything she was.

Overcome by desire, he could think of nothing else. Her presence pushed aside the worries he had carried for days. For now, as long as Tsubaki was with him, nothing else mattered.

.

.

Tsubaki’s gaze remained fixed on Jiro as he continued kissing and nibbling every inch of her skin. A huge wave of relief washed over her as she realized that Jiro had never truly hated her—that he still held the same affectionate gestures toward her, just as he had during their first time. 

She couldn’t stop the tears from welling in her eyes as Jiro’s lips pressed against hers, their shared warmth and softness sending a shiver through her veins, lifting her to the height of ecstasy. She clung to him tighter, unwilling to let him slip through her fingers again. His breath, hot against her skin, carried a hint of bitterness, yet she savored it. Despite the subtle differences, he was still the same Jiro she had adored—the very same person who had captured her heart.

She yielded to Jiro’s touch as he gently loosened her obi and slid the kimono off her shoulders. For a moment, he paused, his gaze lingering on her exposed skin, and in that brief instant, she caught a flicker of raw desire in his crimson eyes. However, Tsubaki didn’t feel the slightest bit of fear. Instead, she was surprisingly calm, even as Jiro stared at her intensely, like a predator fixated on its prey. Perhaps it was because she knew that no matter how intense he became, Jiro would always treat her with care; he would never intentionally hurt her.

Jiro lowered his head once more, his tongue brushing against her nipple, sending a sharp, electric sensation through her body. She twitched slightly, as if startled by the intensity, her breath catching in her throat. A flood of emotions seemed to tighten her chest, but she didn’t stop him, letting her body slowly adjust to the feeling she had almost forgotten. 

Her trembling fingers gently settled in his hair, the strands brushing softly against her skin. As she slowly ran her fingers through it, her movements faltered now and then, overwhelmed by the rush of emotion flooding her chest the moment his mouth closed around her nipple. His touch was both tender and intense, as if he were pouring every ounce of passion into her, leaving her breathless and utterly consumed.

The overwhelming sensation that almost felt like a dream, coupled with the presence of Jiro on top of her, somehow made her eyes well up once more, and she clung to Jiro’s neck even tighter. A faint fear still lingered in her heart—the fear of him leaving her, of turning his back on her as if he had never cared. She couldn’t bear the thought, not after they had already fallen this far, this deep together. As a tear silently trickled down her cheek, she wondered—if only she had the freedom to choose, she would undoubtedly pick Jiro over Seishiro. She didn’t care if she had to endure more judgmental gazes or listen to more whispers; she just wanted Jiro.

“Jiro …” she whispered, her voice faint and trembling between breaths. At the sound of her voice, Jiro’s gaze immediately turned to her. His lips still gently pressed against her nipple, his tender eyes seemed to convey a silent promise: I’m here, and I always will be. 

Though she understood his subtle hints, it wasn’t enough to satisfy her. She wanted more—no, she needed more. “Jiro,” she whispered, her voice trembling but firmer now, her nails pressing into the nape of his neck. She hoped the mark would linger on his skin, a permanent reminder of this moment. “Please … leave me something to remember you by.”

The plea made Jiro lift his head, his slightly tousled bangs falling back to reveal the furrow between his brows. “You want me to leave you something of mine?” he asked, his eyes darting around his bedroom as if searching for an answer within one of his belongings. “But I don’t have anything that would match your taste …”

Oh, how could he be so endearing? Tsubaki couldn’t stop the corners of her lips from curling into an amused smile. “That’s not what I meant,” she said softly, her thumb gently brushing his cheek before trailing down to the scar on his chest. “I want you to leave a mark on me—something to remind me of how deeply you’ve touched me.”

“But aren’t the kiss and bite marks enough?”

“I need more,” came the reply, firm and longing.  “I need something … deeper . Something that will last far longer than those fleeting marks.”

Jiro’s gaze remained locked on the movement of her fingers, but he stayed silent. It seemed he was struggling to process her request—or perhaps weighing the consequences that followed. Whatever the reason, it took him a long moment before he finally replied, “I’m not sure if I can do that.”

“Why not?” Tsubaki pressed, her voice insistent. “Is it because of Seishiro again?”

“That’s part of it,” Jiro admitted, hesitating slightly. “But I also don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m asking this as a favor, Jiro. I want you to hurt me.” Her voice carried a quiet resolve. The emotional scars from her three years of marriage had already left her wounded—what were a few more marks? “Please, Jiro.” 

Jiro’s body trembled as he hovered above her, his gaze locked onto hers, flickering with uncertainty and conflict. She could even see a faint trace of tension in the veins that stood out beneath his damp, glistening skin. Did he not want this so badly? Tsubaki wondered silently, her mind racing as she studied his face, searching for any clue to what he was feeling.

.

.

Jiro had always treated Tsubaki as though she were the most fragile blossom; he was careful never to leave even the slightest mark, fearing it might mar her beauty. Every moment of intimacy was tempered by his restraint, as he held himself back, ensuring her beauty remained intact. Even as his lips and teeth traced her skin, a flicker of concern lingered in his mind—would these marks mar her perfection? The thought would continue to gnaw at him, even as he lost himself in the moment. 

But despite the constant restraints he placed on himself, he couldn’t suppress the growing urge to explore her more deeply—to etch the memory of her skin into the depths of his mind. With each passing moment, the desire grew stronger, threatening to consume his every thought. The harder he tried to hold himself back, the more overwhelming the temptation became, though he had always managed to keep it under control.

However, with Tsubaki speaking those words, pleading for him to carve his presence into her skin, how could he possibly contain himself? It was as if her words had become the key to his cage, unleashing the monster he had fought so hard to keep locked away. His body trembled as he fought against it, the rational part of him unwilling to break his beloved flower. But his sanity was slowly drowning beneath the overwhelming desire that had been building since the day they met. 

His gaze fell on Tsubaki, who was staring at him expectantly, her beautiful eyes gleaming under the soft glow of his bedroom light. With her bare skin exposed and her dark hair spilling over her pearl-white complexion, no sane man would be able to resist such an irresistible allure. Jiro’s body trembled more violently as his back arched, his breaths escaping in hot, uneven puffs, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers. 

After what felt like an eternity of silence, a soft whisper finally escaped Tsubaki’s parted lips. It was only one word, spoken so gently, yet the weight of the emotion behind it tugged at his heartstrings, making it even harder to breathe—let alone think of anything else but her.

“Please.”

In that moment, he gave in to his desire, closing the distance between them as the hunger he had long held back finally broke free. His teeth sank into her neck, and his breath caught her unmistakable scent, adding more to the already overwhelming urges within him. This time, he held nothing back, surrendering completely to the pull he could no longer resist.

.

.

The moment Jiro’s teeth sank into her skin, Tsubaki couldn’t hold back a high-pitched squeal, escaping her lips in place of a muffled moan. It felt as though the weight in her chest had been lifted by that bite, the pain paling in comparison to the overwhelming relief surging through her body. In that moment, she didn’t care if her voice carried beyond the paper doors or if someone else heard—it didn’t matter. The only thing filling her mind was Jiro—how he had finally yielded to her wishes, how he had finally left something on her skin that she could cherish for longer.

Jiro’s teeth sank deeper into her skin as his fingernails dug into her waist, leaving yet another mark on her body. No matter how many times Tsubaki called his name, he didn’t seem to hear her—he was lost in his own world, consumed by the desire he had suppressed for only he knew how long.

Despite the overwhelming pleasure coursing through her, she yearned for even more. She wanted Jiro to leave his marks not only on her neck but everywhere–leaving no corner untouched and no shadow unexplored—to claim every inch of her, to turn her body into a canvas entirely his, a private masterpiece of his longing, meant only for their eyes. Even if it meant causing her pain so deep she could hardly feel anything else, at least she would catch a fleeting glimpse of heaven.

She called out his name, again and again, until her voice grew hoarse and her throat burned, saliva escaping the corner of her mouth. It was the only word she could utter, the only thought consuming her mind, the only thing that brought her pleasure. Her nails dug into the curve of his arched back, desperate to leave behind some mark, a small proof of her existence in his life. 

Her body grew warmer with every passing moment, a tingling heat building at her core, yet she resisted the urge to let go. She longed for Jiro to be inside her, to deepen the pleasure she was already feeling. Perhaps it was the unspoken connection between them, but Jiro seemed to sense her desire. Gently, he helped her part her legs, guiding himself into her, their connection deepening as they moved together, her voice coming out in gasps with each thrust. 

“Jiro …” she murmured once more, her voice trembling. Despite the storm of emotions swirling inside her, she struggled to find the right words—what she felt was too vast, too raw, to be captured by mere language. 

He leaned in, still intimately connected to her, his voice rough and thick with desire as he murmured, “Keep saying my name.”

Obliging, she called out to him again, her voice a little louder this time, hoping it would pierce through the haze of his thoughts. She longed for him to say her name in return, knowing how much he cherished the way each syllable of her name felt on his tongue. 

And when he finally called her name, it felt as though she was soaring higher than ever before. He would say it slowly, carefully, as if cherishing every syllable, and the warmth of his breath brushing against her ear sent a shiver of delight coursing through her entire body.Oh, how she longed for this moment to last forever—for him to stay close, for his voice to keep calling her name until it grew hoarse. These were the secret wishes she carried in her heart every day, afraid that all of it might vanish, as if it were nothing more than a fleeting dream.

But she pushed those thoughts aside for now. As long as she could hold Jiro close, as long as she could hear his voice and feel the warmth of his body, she clung to the selfish hope that this moment was real—that their bond would last forever. 

Overwhelmed by the mix of pleasure and exhaustion, her body slowly gave in, gradually slipping into unconsciousness. The last thing she felt was the warmth of Jiro’s hands wrapped around her and the constant thumping of his heartbeat.

Chapter Text

Seishiro had been searching for Tsubaki around the house the moment he and Zenji got home, unable to find her in her room. It was still early in the morning, too soon for her to have left for the shop. She was usually still at home when he departed for work … Could she be in the kitchen? 

But after knocking on every door and checking every room, she was nowhere to be found. Frustration began to gnaw at him—he had come home earlier than scheduled to surprise her. What kind of wife left home so early in the morning without a word? Hadn't she learned enough from the rumors that had always followed her? He was so consumed by that thought that he barely noticed Zenji’s worried face by his side as he glanced toward the direction of the back pavilion. 

He decided to ask the maids who just appeared from the back pavilion to mop the floor. As expected, they seemed surprised to see him. 

“Master Seishiro and Master Kirisaki? I thought you weren’t returning until tomorrow.”

“Plans changed,” he replied with a faint smile. “Have you seen the missus?”

The maids exchanged uneasy glances before hesitantly turning their eyes toward Seishiro. 

“The missus… should still be in her room.”

“I’ve already checked her room. She’s not there.”

“Then …” The maids exchanged another worried glance before speaking hesitantly, “She might have stayed in young Kirisaki’s room since that evening …”

“ What?!”

.

.

Sunlight seeped through the gap between the closed windows, accompanied by the gentle chirping of birds. Jiro slowly opened his eyes, blinking as his vision adjusted to the soft morning light. As he propped himself up, he realized that Tsubaki was still asleep on the other side of the futon, her breathing steady and peaceful despite the intense night she had gone through. 

His gaze trailed down her exposed skin, noting how the bite and scratch marks he had left remained—these ones destined to linger far longer than those from their previous encounters. The deep redness of each mark stood in stark contrast to her fair skin, reminding him of camellia petals scattered across pristine white snow. 

How beautiful, he thought to himself, a faint smile creeping across his lips. 

If she had already left the room, he might have convinced himself that everything from the previous night was just a fleeting, beautiful dream—it all felt too perfect to be real. His eyes lingered on the sleeping woman, tracing the marks he had left on her skin. The redness, which he had once feared might taint her beauty, now seemed to amplify it, lending her an irresistible charm. It drew him in, compelling him to lean closer and press his face against the delicate spread of crimson marks on her bare back. 

He felt Tsubaki stir slightly beneath his touch as his lips brushed against every inch of her skin. Slowly, she opened her eyes, revealing the beautiful red irises he had always adored. Even in her drowsiness, she still looked breathtaking.

“Good morning, Jiro,” she whispered softly. “Are you feeling better?”

He nodded. “I am, thanks to you.”

Her smile bloomed as she cupped his cheeks with her slender fingers, and his heart leaped at the simple yet tender gesture. “I’m glad.”

They smiled at each other, the rest of the world blurring into insignificance as he leaned in closer, her face becoming the only thing in his sight. Gently, he brushed a soft kiss against her lips. The sweetness of her mouth, paired with the warmth of her arms encircling his neck as they lay together, still undressed on the futon, filled him with a certainty he had never known—this was, without a doubt, the best morning he had ever lived.

The happiness, however, was fleeting. The moment was shattered when the door suddenly slid open, revealing an infuriated Seishiro and an anxious-looking Zenji. 

“Just what do you think you’re doing?!” Seishiro demanded, his usually low and collected voice now trembling with uncontainable rage. 

Tsubaki was the first to break their embrace. Panic surged through her as she hastily pulled the kakebuton over her exposed chest, her wide eyes locked onto the open door. Her lips trembled as she barely managed to whisper, “Seishiro …” 

Jiro’s heart sank. He had always feared this day would come, but he never expected it to be so soon—especially when they were at their most vulnerable. He had undoubtedly hurt Tsubaki and betrayed Seishiro’s trust, as well as Zenji’s—the very things he had never wanted to do in the first place. 

"It's all my fault," he said gently to the fuming house owner, positioning himself protectively in front of Tsubaki's trembling figure. "I hope you're not placing all the blame on Tsuba—the missus."

Even in the dimly lit room, he could see how frighteningly pale Seishiro’s face had become. “Have … have you been doing this every time I’m gone?” he asked, his voice unsteady with anger.

“That’s …”

“Answer me!” 

Another roar from Seishiro made Tsubaki squeal in fear. Her voice trembled as though she were on the verge of tears, and Jiro couldn’t bear to see her in such a miserable state. Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees, kowtowing despite the lack of clothing covering his body. His dignity no longer mattered—only Tsubaki’s did.

“I’m terribly sorry. This is all my fault.”

His gaze drifted to Zenji when he finally looked up, and the clear disappointment in the latter’s eyes pained him even more. His brother had always stood by him, but it seemed even he had grown weary of constantly covering for Jiro the whole time. After all, Jiro was the one who kept defying him. He should have listened to Zenji’s warning in the first place.

But now, with no way to undo what had happened or turn back time, the only thing Jiro could do was ensure that Tsubaki didn’t drown along with him. He was willing to bear twice the weight of guilt if it meant freeing her from it.

"If you need someone to blame, then blame me. This has nothing to do with the missus or my brother. I did this out of my own ignorance."

He bowed deeply, his forehead pressed against the rough tatami floor, his body rigid with silent resolve. Above him, Seishiro loomed, his fury palpable, adding an invisible but crushing weight to Jiro’s already burdened back.

"I see," Seishiro finally said after what felt like an eternity of silence. His voice was eerily calm, but the weight behind his words was suffocating. "You're clearly the one at fault here, so I'm going to punish you accordingly."

“Seishiro, please …!” 

But Seishiro didn’t even spare Tsubaki a glance. His cold gaze remained fixed on Jiro, his expression darkening, though a flicker of satisfaction danced in his eyes. "Since you've been making advances on my wife, I’ll make sure to take you somewhere far away—somewhere you'll never see her again."

Jiro’s body tensed, his fists clenching tightly against the floor, yet he forced himself to remain still. Any retaliation would only make things worse. 

Tsubaki, however, had a different idea. She crawled toward Seishiro, the thick kakebuton draped over her shoulders, desperation lacing her voice as she pleaded, "You don’t have to go that far! He’s still young! What about his studies? Are you just going to throw him into a desolate place and let him rot there? I won’t accept that!"

“You will continue your studies in Shanghai,” Seishiro stated, once again disregarding his own wife. “You are forbidden from contacting Tsubaki in any way. If you defy me, I will ensure you spend the rest of your life stranded in a foreign city with no financial support.”

For a brief moment, Jiro felt a strong urge to retaliate—to throw Seishiro’s own negligence back at him with words like, "It’s your fault for abandoning your wife in the first place," or, "I’m just giving her what she’s been deprived of. Had you done that, I wouldn’t have even dared to touch a strand of her hair."

But instead, he swallowed his pride and bowed once more, his voice strained as he spoke, “I understand.”

“Jiro—!”

“It’s alright,” he said, finally turning his head to look at Tsubaki. It pained him to see her tear-streaked face—how he longed to wipe those tears away—yet he masked it with a strained smile. “I’m going to take responsibility for my own sins.” He allowed himself to take in her appearance one last time, admiring how breathtaking she was even in her tears. 

Because more than his own selfish desires, her well-being mattered most. He would do anything—even at the cost of his own life—to protect his beloved camellia in bloom.

Chapter Text

Zenji had never felt so helpless in his life. There was nothing he could do to stop his brother from leaving Japan, nor could he ease Seishiro’s growing anger. In the final week before Jiro’s departure to Shanghai, the atmosphere in the house grew unbearably heavy, almost suffocating. He couldn’t ignore Tsubaki’s red-rimmed eyes during their dinners or how Jiro barely touched his food. It was impossible to pretend it had nothing to do with him–in fact, he felt equally guilty, if not more. 

If only there was something he could do to lighten their load, he kept repeating to himself. If only he had the courage to stand up for them the way Jiro stood up for Tsubaki. As reckless as his brother might seem, Zenji had to admit that Jiro was far braver than he was—or ever could be. 

On the day of Jiro’s departure, Zenji was the only one who accompanied him to the harbor. His face was so pale it hurt to look at him, yet his voice remained calm and soft as he said, “Please take care of Tsubaki for me.” 

When his brother’s figure finally vanished from view and the ship sailed into the open sea, Zenji felt the weight of regret settle deep in his chest. He should have said more to ease his brother’s heart or reminded him to take good care of his health. He should have promised to visit Jiro whenever he could, to share stories about Tsubaki and keep her memory alive for him. He should have at least given him a hug, offering even the smallest measure of comfort. 

It was on his way back home that Zenji was struck by a sudden, brilliant idea. Seishiro had forbidden Jiro from corresponding with Tsubaki, but he hadn’t said anything about Jiro contacting his own brother. Zenji could have Tsubaki write a letter to Jiro and send it along with his own. That way, the letter would reach Jiro under Zenji’s name, bypassing Seishiro’s restrictions entirely.

.

.

To Tsubaki, Zenji had always been her savior. He was the first to treat her with warmth, and while he was the opposite of his brother whom she loved so dearly, his presence was just as comforting. Just when she had lost all hope of ever reaching Jiro again, Zenji appeared with a suggestion that reignited the light in her once-darkened world. 

"I don’t know how I can thank you."

As always, Zenji gave him the gentlest smile—one that often reminded him of Jiro—and shook his head. "I promised Jiro I’d make sure you’re doing well, so all you need to do is help me keep that promise."

Tears welled up in her eyes at the mention of Jiro’s name, but this time, she quickly wiped them away before returning Zenji’s gentle smile. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and then nodded. Though her heart still ached, she now had a new reason to keep moving forward. Just as Jiro did his best in a foreign country, she would strive just as hard to match his spirit.

Dear Jiro,

I hope this letter finds you well. Zenji told me to write to you. Seishiro should be unaware of this, as it will be attached to Zenji’s letter under his name. I hope this doesn’t surprise you too much.

As I write this, a week has passed since you left. I have lived without you for three years, yet I have never felt such pain before. On the day you departed, I couldn’t stop crying. I kept calling your name, hoping you would come home and stay with me.

But I’m sure this isn’t the kind of story you’d want to hear, is it? I promised Zenji I wouldn’t make you worry, so I’ll keep my word. Since you’re studying hard in Shanghai, I’ve decided to devote more time to my kimono shop. I wish I could show you my designs in this letter—I already have several ideas I believe people will love.

Have you been eating well? How are you adjusting to life in Shanghai? Please tell me everything. I look forward to hearing from you.

Love,

Tsubaki

Chapter Text

Dear Jiro,

As I write this letter, the first snow has just fallen. It won’t be long before the entire ground is blanketed in white, marking another winter I must spend without you.

I wish you were here, Jiro. A thousand letters wouldn’t be enough to express how much I miss you. If only I could cross the sea to see you, my life would be so much better. For now, the only thing I truly look forward to is your letters, since I’m no longer allowed to leave the house.

Lately, Zenji has been my only company, but even he isn’t permitted to stay with me for long—Seishiro doesn’t like it. That’s also why I’m forbidden from going out. He doesn’t want me wandering around and, in his own words, “fooling around with more men.”

I've been trying to immerse myself in embroidery and have managed to create a few pieces. I even made you a small camellia embroidery that you can keep as a charm since you mentioned you like camellia flowers. Hopefully, Zenji won’t have any trouble sending it along with this letter.

I hope you're doing well in Shanghai. Let me know how you're holding up and if you're taking good care of yourself. Please don’t push yourself too hard like last time; I sincerely wish to see you return to Japan in good health. When that time comes, I hope we have nothing left to worry about. I hope I can run into your embrace without fearing what Seishiro thinks, and finally—finally—we can truly belong to each other.

Love,

Tsubaki

Jiro’s gaze shifted from the letter in his hand to the gray sky outside his dorm window. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed since he left Japan. It had still been the beginning of spring when he departed, and now winter was already approaching. He wondered if the sky in Japan was just as gray as it was in Shanghai. 

When he received her first letter a couple of months ago, he almost couldn’t believe his eyes. He thought it was merely a hallucination brought on by exhaustion after overworking himself day and night—burying himself in his studies just to escape the pain of yearning for her. Even when he wasn’t studying, he spent his time interning at a hospital near his campus, not only to keep himself occupied but also to earn extra money so he wouldn’t have to rely on Seishiro financially for too long. If there was one thing he hated, it was the feeling of being indebted to someone—especially when that someone was as broken as Seishiro.

Jiro reread the letter one last time before neatly folding it and placing it inside a box, alongside her other letters and her fundoshi. He had always avoided looking at the box for too long—just a single glance was enough to make his longing for her unbearable. But now, he couldn’t help himself. With a shaky breath, he picked up the fundoshi, pressing it against his nose as he inhaled the lingering scent of his beloved camellia, the faint fragrance stirring memories he had tried so hard to suppress.

Suddenly, his chest tightened, and he doubled over, the fundoshi still pressed to his mouth as he fought to stifle a series of harsh, painful coughs. It took several moments for the fit to subside, leaving him gasping for air, his body trembling from the effort. With trembling hands, he pulled the fundoshi from his mouth, his eyes widening as he noticed the blood seeping into the soft fabric. The crimson stain spread like a blooming camellia, vivid and startling against the pale cloth. 

But the shock faded as quickly as it emerged. He had been battling this stubborn cold for weeks, and it must have taken a toll on his throat. Jiro wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his breaths still ragged and uneven. Once he steadied himself, he slowly stood up and made his way to the washroom to clean the bloodstains from the fundoshi, silently regretting how it would also wash off the leftover scent of her. 

A faint, bitter smile crept onto his lips. Maybe it was a sign, he thought. Maybe he was meant to let her go after all.

.

.

My dear brother Jiro,

I hope you're doing well. It’s been weeks since I last heard from you, and I’m starting to worry. Please write back as soon as you get this letter. 

I wish I had better news to share, but things haven’t been great lately. Since you’ve been gone, Seishiro has been making obvious advances toward Tsubaki, but she keeps turning him down. It’s clear he doesn’t take it well—he’s started drinking heavily after every shift. 

I’ve tried to stop him, but he always insists, “I’m her husband, and I have every right to flirt with my own wife.” He often adds, “She’s been craving my attention for years, so I’m giving it to her now. She should be thrilled,” as if that justifies it all. 

Now that Tsubaki could no longer go outside, she spent most of her time locked in her room. She will only go out when Seishiro is not at home. Those are the only times I can talk to her and get the letter she wrote for you.

I wish I were as brave as you, Jiro. I want to stand up for her the way you always did, but I’m terrified of what Seishiro might think of me—how ungrateful I might seem in his eyes. After all, you cleared me of any blame last time. I can’t let that go to waste.

For now, the only thing keeping her from sinking deeper into sadness is the hope of receiving your letter. So, please, write back soon. We’ll be waiting for you.

Your brother,

Zenji

The letter was crumpled and tossed to the floor the moment Jiro finished reading it. He could only imagine how terrified Tsubaki had been during these times, and he hated himself for not being there to protect her.

The agitation triggered yet another coughing fit, his body convulsing as he pressed his sleeve to his lips—only to see it smeared with crimson. Coupled with the unforgiving winter, his condition worsened with each passing day. The stain of blood seeped into every tissue and handkerchief, a grim reminder of his deteriorating state. The once-familiar room was slowly being tainted with traces of his suffering, and it was painfully clear—his life was slipping away.

Jiro's coughing didn’t subside, even as he struggled to make his way to the table and grab a piece of paper. Both Zenji and Tsubaki had been waiting for his letter for quite some time. Given Tsubaki’s current state, he knew he had to write now–before things got even worse. 

To Zenji,

I’m sorry for just writing back now. I have been quite busy with my studies and my side job at the hospital. 

I’m doing alright over here, so please–

Another cough tore through his throat as he wrote, and blood seeped through his fingers, staining the paper in front of him. Gritting his teeth, he furiously slammed the table, loathing the weakness that had overtaken him. He could barely write a letter; how could he even dream about protecting the person he loved the most? 

He took several heaving breaths before straightening his back again, ignoring the sharp protests of his failing body. With trembling hands, he wiped the bloodstains from the table and his fingers before picking up the pen once more. Even if it took him a hundred tries to rewrite the letter, he would fight through each and every one—because at this moment, it was the only thing he could do for Tsubaki.

Chapter Text

Jiro’s letter came when the snow had melted from the trees and the garden looked greener after being covered in white blanket for months. When Zenji slipped the letter under her bedroom door, it was like the sun had entered the room, filling her with the comforting warmth she had yearned for so long. 

Dear Tsubaki,

Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I’ve been so occupied with my studies and work that I barely noticed how much time had passed. By the time this letter reaches you, winter must have already ended.

I hope you’re doing well. My brother has already told me what happened—I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. I wish I could bring you here with me, but for now, that doesn’t seem possible.

Have you been eating well? I’ve been trying to cook for myself, and while the taste is bearable, it’s nowhere near as good as yours. I wish I could have your cooking one more time.

My Mandarin has improved so much over the past few months. I can now hold casual conversations with my peers with ease. When I return, I’ll teach you a thing or two—you’ll pick it up quickly, I’m sure.

Thank you for the camellia embroidery. There are no camellia trees around the building where I stay, so I’ve placed it near the window so I can see it every day. Honestly, it almost feels like I’m keeping your portrait in my room.

When we meet again, let’s sit under the camellia tree and talk about our lives. Until then, please wait for me. 

Sincerely,

Jiro

Jiro’s handwriting in this letter was noticeably different from his previous ones. It was shakier, uneven, and marred with ink stains, as if each word had been a struggle to put on paper. Yet, despite its imperfections, the letter carried an undeniable sincerity—one that pierced straight through her heart. Unable to hold back, tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. 

“Jiro …” she whispered as she pressed the letter to her chest. Her voice went shakier as the tears dropped to the floor. “Jiro …” 

If only Jiro were here, she would have leapt into his embrace and never let him go. But now that he was no longer physically by her side, all she could do was cling to the remnants of him—just as she clutched the letter tightly, as if it were her lifeline.

.

.

Seishiro came home that night just as he had the past few days—drunk and furious. Tsubaki recognized the sound of his unsteady footsteps, the telltale rhythm of impending chaos. The moment he stepped into the house, she quickly retreated to her bedroom, pressing herself against the sliding door as if willing herself to disappear.

Just like last time, he called her name—each time louder, each time more insistent. “Tsubaki, I know you’re in your room! Don’t you want to greet your beloved husband?” 

Tsubaki’s body trembled as Seishiro’s footsteps grew closer, her heartbeat pounding violently in her chest. It had been so much easier when he ignored her—when he acted as though she didn’t exist. But now that Jiro was gone, she had no one to turn to—not even Zenji.

“Tsubaki, come on out! What kind of wife abandons her husband like this?!”

This time, his voice was right outside her door, sharp and furious. She clenched her eyes shut, pressing her hands over her ears in a desperate attempt to muffle the sound. But no matter how hard she tried, his voice still tore through her, echoing in her skull like an inescapable nightmare.

“If you’re not answering, then I’m coming in.”

In shock, Tsubaki stumbled to the side as the door slid open with force, revealing Seishiro leaning heavily against the doorframe. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, the strong stench of alcohol clinging to him. When his gaze landed on her, his lips curled into a crooked smile—one that sent a shiver down her spine, making her tremble even more.

After that, everything felt almost surreal. Seishiro kept forcing her to embrace him, pressing his lips against hers. She fought with all her strength to resist him, to push him away, to escape—but even in his drunken state, he was far stronger than she was.

“You ungrateful wench! How dare you reject me—I’m your husband!”

His advances grew more aggressive, his grip tightening as he ranted, voice laced with indignation. He kept repeating the same justifications—how he was only giving her what she had always longed for, how she should have chosen him instead of someone as insignificant as Jiro. He was wealthier, more handsome, more charismatic than anyone else. 

"You should be grateful I was generous enough to keep him alive and even fund his living in another country!"

"Stop it …"

"So you better listen to me and act like an obedient wife, or worse things will happen to him!"

"Stop it!"

Tsubaki's voice rang out, trembling with desperation, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. She staggered back after wrenching herself free from Seishiro’s grasp, her voice trembling before erupting into a desperate scream as she bolted out of the bedroom, ignoring Seishiro’s deafening yell.

Dear Jiro,

I’m scared.

I’m really scared.

Every day feels like a nightmare, even when I’m awake. I’m afraid of everything—the sound of footsteps, the creak of doors opening, even the rustling of leaves...

Jiro, when will these nightmares end? Will there ever be a day when I open my eyes and find you by my side? Or will they haunt me until the day I die?

I'm sorry for burdening you with all of this. I promised I wouldn't worry you, but I can't keep it to myself anymore. I can't even tell Zenji—I don't want him to get hurt like you did. You're my last hope, Jiro. I’ll be waiting for you. Always. 

Love,

Tsubaki

.

.

The sea breeze and the strong wind whipping against his face felt suffocating, yet he remained in a haze. Everything around him—even the vast, deep blue sea—appeared as an ocean of crimson in his eyes.

He had always dreamed of going to Shanghai, yet he never imagined he would arrive in this state, burdened by everything that had happened in Japan. Tsubaki’s shaky handwriting surfaced in his mind once more, each word carving itself deeper into his thoughts—until all he could see was red. He shook his head frantically, trying to wipe the vivid image off his mind. 

He quickened his pace as he made his way toward Jiro’s dorm house, a growing sense of urgency clawing at his chest. But when he arrived, Jiro was nowhere to be found. Instead, what greeted him was a sight that sent a chill down his spine—crumpled tissues stained with blood scattered across the floor, the air thick with the metallic scent of decay. On the table lay unsent letters, their pages speckled with the same deep crimson. Once again, red filled his vision, suffocating him with the same helpless dread he had felt before.

How he wished for all of this to be a long nightmare, he thought to himself. He was reminded of the words in Tsubaki’s final letter; the dread that had been haunting her and how she lived through each day in countless nightmares. It was only now that he realized how she had been feeling. 

But when he finally saw Jiro inside the ward of the sanatorium, the weight of realization nearly brought him to his knees. The sight of his brother coughing violently overlapped with the haunting image of Tsubaki lying on the ground. The crimson staining Jiro’s blanket was eerily reminiscent of her red kimono, and for a moment, Zenji could hardly breathe. Now that Jiro was in this state, how could they possibly have the heart to tell him the truth?

Why did things have to end this way? The thought burned painfully in Zenji’s mind. Neither Tsubaki nor Jiro deserved this cruel fate. Every step he took toward his brother felt like torture, his chest tightening with unbearable grief. And when their eyes finally met, Zenji could no longer hold back his tears. His legs gave out beneath him as he collapsed onto Jiro’s lap, his sobs breaking the silence of the small room.

“Brother  …” 

“I’m sorry,” he choked out between ragged breaths. “I’m really sorry, Jiro.”

But no matter how much he apologized, he couldn’t turn back time. A mere apology wouldn’t restore Jiro’s health, nor could it bring Tsubaki back to life. He could only drown in his own tears, his grief suffocating him, as he felt the warm touch of his beloved brother on his back. And yet, despite his dwindling strength and the relentless coughs that wracked his frail body, Jiro managed to offer Zenji comfort with a low, steady voice.

"It was never your fault," he said, the gentleness in his voice only making the pain in Zenji’s chest cut deeper. "You don’t have to apologize … brother."

Zenji raised his head, his eyes meeting Jiro’s—eyes that shared the same color as his. Gently, he took his brother’s bony hands, squeezing them carefully, mindful that any extra pressure might break his fragile bones.

“I’m here to bring you home,” he said, his voice soft but resolute.

Jiro’s eyes widened in confusion. “But Seishiro …”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Zenji interrupted, his tone firm. “Not anymore.”

Chapter Text

Jiro had almost forgotten about life in Japan, even though he had only been abroad for a little over a year. Everything seemed almost the same as when he left, yet there were subtle differences. He noticed how the trees lining the pedestrian area had grown taller and how new buildings were filling the once-empty spaces. But what caught his eye the most was Tsubaki’s kimono shop—it was already closed, and it didn’t seem like it had been operating for quite some time. The sight of it pained him, suffocating him in a way that was different from the grip of his disease.

When Zenji told him about what happened to Tsubaki, he almost couldn’t believe his ears. He just got her letters a few days ago, so there was no way she was gone. She had promised to wait for him, so she should still be at home, waiting for him like she always did. There was no way she would do something as foolish as jumping off the balcony and … 

“Her body fell on the ground like a camellia flower in bloom. When I found her that morning, it was already too late.”

Zenji’s words once again echoed in his mind, pulling him back to the harsh reality. Amidst all the changes he had witnessed on his way back to the Kagurazaka residence, there was no one else there—not the homeowner, not even the maids. Just as Zenji had told him, Seishiro had been detained under the accusation of murder, while Tsubaki was already …

Jiro sank to the floor the moment he saw Tsubaki’s empty room. Everything looked the same, except for the messy bed sheets and Tsubaki’s headpiece discarded on the floor. The air still held the faint, lingering scent of her—the familiar fragrance he had almost forgotten, now a bittersweet reminder of what was lost.

Behind him, Zenji’s voice sounded barely audible. “Jiro …”

“Take me to the garden,” he whispered. “I want to sit under the camellia tree.” 

.

.

Dried blood stained the grass, a cruel reminder of Tsubaki’s tragic demise. Jiro could only imagine the agony she had endured, suffering alone until the only escape from her endless nightmare was to take her own life.

“I should have protected her,” Zenji’s voice broke the silence, raw with grief. “I promised you I would protect her, but in the end, I was …”

Jiro weakly shook his head. He wanted to tell his brother that he had done enough, that he shouldn’t bear the entire burden alone. But when he tried to speak, the only sounds that escaped him were dry, ragged coughs, each one tearing through his chest like a silent plea. He knew that he was already running out of time. 

As Zenji helped him sit under the camellia tree, Jiro could see the bitterness and pain on his brother’s face, and for a moment he felt  a painful twang in his chest. If only he had more time, he could’ve spent it with his brother. At least that way he didn’t have to leave him alone so soon. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Zenji’s tears fell onto Jiro’s face, his voice shaky as he whispered, “Tsubaki needs you more than I do.”

Ah, right. Tsubaki must have been waiting for him somewhere in the afterlife. A faint, weary smile crossed Jiro’s lips as he cast one last glance at Zenji as his brother’s back disappeared into the house, neither of them uttered a goodbye. There was no need for words—only the quiet understanding that this was the end.  

The fallen petals of camellia flowers drifted down, one after another, gradually covering him like a blanket of crimson. Perhaps this was a message from Tsubaki—a sign that she had yearned for him just as much as he had for her. 

Jiro shakily pulled a piece of fabric from inside his haori—a delicate cloth adorned with camellia embroidery, the last gift Tsubaki had given him. His unfocused eyes softened at the sight, and with trembling fingers, he traced the intricate stitching, as if committing its texture to memory.

“I’m home, Tsubaki,” he whispered. 

But the moment of quiet solace was shattered by another violent coughing fit, his body convulsing as the attack drained the last remnants of his strength, leaving him breathless and weak and staining the fabric with his blood, The deep red color mingled with the petals on his lap, blending into a sorrowful tapestry of beauty and fragility.

As his consciousness slowly slipped away, Jiro envisioned Tsubaki leaning on his shoulder, her smile as gentle as he remembered as a camellia petal gently landed on her hair, her presence as soothing as a distant dream. Her voice echoed softly in his mind, wrapping around him like a lullaby.

“Welcome back, Jiro.”

❀