Chapter 23

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待つ心

Matsu Kokoro

The morning after the storm, the Butterfly Estate woke to a world washed clean.

You stood at the edge of the engawa, watching water drip from the wisteria leaves in slow, jewel-bright beads. The air smelled of wet earth and soaked blossoms, and somewhere in the distance, a bird was testing its voice against the quiet.

Your shoulder still remembered the weight of Shinobu’s head resting against it.

Your hands still remembered the warmth of her fingers intertwined with yours.

And your chest—

Your chest was doing something complicated that you had been very carefully not examining since you’d woken up alone in your futon, the blanket from Shinobu’s room folded neatly at the foot of your bed.

You barely remembered the details, feeling drowsy and all by the end of the night. You merely remembered how she brought you back to your bed, holding your hand through the dark corridors and putting you to sleep.

She must have left while you were still asleep. Must have slipped out with that impossible silence of hers, leaving you with nothing but the memory of her breathing evening out against your ribs.

You pressed your palms flat against your thighs.

Get it together, you told yourself. The compound needs finishing. The boys are still in Yoshiwara. Shinobu is your partner. Your colleague. Your—

Your what?

You didn’t have a word for it yet. That was the problem. That was the whole, terrifying problem.

· · ─────── · 𓅪 · ─────── · ·

The laboratory was empty when you arrived.

Unusual.

Shinobu was almost always there before you, her pen already moving, the tea already steeping. This morning, the burner was cold, and the notebook was closed, and the prototype sat alone on the workbench like an abandoned thought.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, disoriented by the absence of her.

She’s just sleeping in. She was up late.

You kept her up late.

But the knot in your stomach didn’t loosen.

You crossed to the workbench and picked up the prototype, turning it over in your hands. The glass was cool against your palms, the purple crystals suspended in their pressurized chamber like something caught between sleeping and waking.

The trigger mechanism was solved. The timing was perfect.

All that remained was testing.

And waiting.

Always waiting, you thought. Waiting for the crow. Waiting for the boys to come home. Waiting for—

The shoji screen whispered open behind you.

“Good morning, ______-san.”

You turned. Shinobu stood in the doorway, and for a moment—just a moment—the mask was entirely absent.

She looked tired, that’s the first thing you noticed. The shadows under her eyes were deeper than yesterday, and her hair was pulled back in a loose, inelegant knot she would never have worn in front of anyone else. She was wearing a simple grey robe over her uniform, the collar slightly askew, as if she’d dressed in a hurry.

Or as if she hadn’t slept at all.

“You look terrible,” the words escaped your lips before you could filter them.

Great job, you absolute moron.

Shinobu arched an eyebrow. “My, what a lovely greeting for a lady at the start of the day.”

“I meant— ahem, that is to say, it was a clinical assessment.” You abandoned the prototype on the bench and crossed the room, your legs acting independently of your better judgment. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes tracked your approach with that particular sharpness she reserved for things she was trying to understand.

“Some,” she said finally. “Not enough.”

“Shinobu—”

“I’m fine.” She stepped past you into the laboratory, her shoulder brushing against yours. The contact was brief, but you felt it everywhere. “The synthesis requires my attention. We’re close. I can feel it.”

She was already at the workbench, her hands moving over the equipment with that precise, mechanical efficiency that meant she was thinking about something else.

You watched her for a moment.

Then you walked to the cabinet where she kept the tea things, pulled out the chamomile, and began to prepare the pot without being asked.

“______-san.”

“Mm.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” You measured the dried flowers into the ceramic pot, your movements slower than hers, less practiced. But you tried. “…I want to.”

The silence that followed was different from the ones you’d shared before. It wasn’t the wary quiet of strangers, or the comfortable quiet of colleagues, or even the charged quiet of almost-kisses interrupted by thunder.

It was something else.

Something that felt like standing at the edge of a door you hadn’t decided whether to walk through.

You poured the hot water. The scent of chamomile rose between you, soft and soothing.

“…I had a dream last night,” Shinobu said quietly.

You looked up. She wasn’t looking at you—her gaze was fixed on the prototype, her fingers resting lightly on the glass.

“About what?”

“It was about Kanae.” A brief silence followed. “She was standing in the garden behind the mansion, right where the ancient wisteria is. She had on that pink kimono she was so fond of… the one decorated with peonies. And she was laughing.”

You set the teapot down and walked to stand beside her.

“In the dream,” Shinobu went on, her tone hushed, “I asked her if she felt proud of me, of who I am now and what I am creating.” She hesitated. “She didn’t say a word… she just continued laughing. Then, she gestured toward something behind me. When I turned around—” She trailed off.

“What did you see?” you asked in a gentle nudge.

Shinobu shifted her gaze to meet yours.

“You were there,” she revealed. “In the midst of the wisteria, holding a single flower.”

The air caught in your throat.

“I don’t know what it means,” Shinobu said, and there was something almost vulnerable in her voice, almost uncertain. “I don’t know if it means anything at all. Dreams are just the mind processing itself. I know the science of it. But I woke up, and I—”

She paused, swallowing hard as she searched for the words.

“I woke up and came directly here,” she said, her voice dropping. “Because I knew you would be here.”

The weight of her admission hung heavily in the air between you.

Moving slowly to give her every chance to retreat, you reached out and took her hand in yours.

She didn’t pull away.

“Shinobu,” you said, “I’m always going to be here. For as long as you want me to be.”

She looked down at your joined hands. Her thumb traced a slow circle on the back of your palm.

“That’s a very long time,” she murmured. “You might regret promising it.”

“I doubt it.”

As she met your gaze, the facade she usually maintained fell away, even if only for a fleeting second. The raw emotion visible in her eyes caused a sharp, familiar ache in your chest—a sensation that felt dangerously similar to hope.

“We have work to do,” she eventually murmured, though she seemed hesitant as she pulled her hand back. “That compound isn’t going to finish itself.”

You reached for the teapot. “Tea first. The work can wait a moment.”

The faint suggestion of a smile appeared on her face. “Bossy, aren’t you?”

“I have an excellent teacher.”

You began to pour the tea. When she accepted the cup, her fingers grazed yours; both of you remained silent about the way the contact lingered.

· · ─────── · 𓅪 · ─────── · ·

The days that followed settled into a rhythm that felt almost domestic.

You woke before dawn, not because you had to, but because your body had learned to expect the laboratory’s quiet hum. You would dress in the dark, pull your hair back, and walk the length of the east corridor with your footsteps soft on the wood.

Shinobu was always there.

Sometimes she was already working, her pen moving across the page in that elegant, rapid script. Sometimes she was just arriving, her hair still loose, her yukata still wrinkled from sleep. Sometimes, rarely, she was standing at the window, watching the sky lighten over the wisteria, and you would stand beside her and watch too.

Neither of you spoke about the almost-kiss.

Neither of you spoke about the blanket, or the dream, or the way your hands seemed to find each other more and more often in the quiet moments between experiments.

But it was there—a presence in the room. A question neither of you was ready to answer.

You noticed things about her now.

The way she tapped her fingers against her thigh when she was thinking—a rapid, rhythmic pattern that you’d learned to read. Fast meant frustration. Slow meant contemplation. Three taps, then a pause, meant she was about to say something important.

You noticed the way she said your name.

Not ______-san, not always. Now, more often it’s just ______, soft and quick, like she was testing how it felt in her mouth. She always looked slightly surprised after she said it, as if the familiarity had escaped without permission.

You noticed the way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t looking.

It was a different look from the one she wore during the day, the pleasant, butterfly-light mask she presented to the world. This look was unguarded. Curious.

Almost… hungry.

You noticed the way she flinched when a crow flew overhead.

It was tiny, just a micro-expression, a momentary tightening around her eyes. Most people would have missed it. You didn’t.

She’s waiting too, you realized. She’s just as terrified as I am. She’s just better at hiding it.

Despite the underlying tension, your work on the compound moved forward.

The initial failures gave way to a second prototype that held its form, followed by an even more refined third version.

By the time you reached the fifth iteration, you held a functional weapon: a pressurized fluid-filled glass sphere the size of a temari ball, centered around a core of sharp, violet crystals.

“Test it,” Shinobu said on the sixth day, holding the prototype up to the light.

“On what?”

“On something that won’t explode the laboratory.”

You looked at her. She looked at you.

“…The abandoned training ground?” you suggested.

“The abandoned training ground,” she agreed.

It was dusk when you walked to the far end of the estate, past the storage sheds and the old well, to the clearing where the youngest trainees used to practice before the war had swallowed them up.

The grass was overgrown. The wooden training posts were weathered and cracked. But the space was open, and the nearest building was far enough away that a mist dispersal wouldn’t damage anything important.

You set the prototype on a flat stone in the center of the clearing.

Shinobu stood several paces behind you, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable.

“Ready?” you called.

You turned back to the sphere. Your heart was beating faster than it should have been—not from fear, exactly.

From anticipation.

This was the moment.

Months of labor and an endless string of unsuccessful syntheses had brought you to this very instant. The intricate temperature cycles, the carefully engineered protein scaffolds, and the binary dispersal system were all distilled into the delicate glass sphere resting upon a stone in the tangled clearing.

“I am always prepared, ______-san,” Shinobu stated.

Turning your attention back to the device, you felt your pulse quicken. It wasn’t exactly dread that moved you, but a sharp sense of anticipation. This was the culmination of everything.

Lifting the long wooden pole you had carried for this specific task, you retreated to a distance you prayed was sufficient for safety.

“I’m throwing it now,” you announced.

“Throw it, ______.”

You threw.

The sphere arced through the evening air, catching the last light of the dying sun. For a moment, it seemed to hang suspended—a perfect, glittering orb against the darkening sky.

The glass met the earth and shattered instantly.

In that moment, the clearing was consumed by purple.

It wasn’t an explosion of fire or force, but a sudden, aggressive eruption of violet mist. The cloud surged outward from the point of impact, thick enough to swallow the grass and obscure the distant treeline in a dense haze.

You recoiled, instinctively shielding your face with your hand.

Shinobu, however, remained motionless.

She stood perfectly still, her arms still crossed, her face illuminated by the eerie purple glow of the dispersing mist. The cloud swirled around her, clinging to her clothes, her hair, her skin.

And she was smiling.

“…It worked,” she said, her voice barely audible over the hiss of the vaporizing fluid. “______, it worked.”

You lowered your hand. The mist was already dissipating, carried away by the evening breeze, but the scent of wisteria lingered, thick and sweet and utterly pervasive.

“It worked,” you repeated, the words feeling strange in your mouth.

Shinobu turned to look at you. Her face was flushed from the mist, maybe, or from something else entirely.

“The dispersal radius is approximately fifteen feet,” she said, her voice shifting into clinical observation mode. “The mist density is sufficient to coat exposed tissue. If this had been a demon—”

“It would have been lethal,” you finished.

“It would have been lethal,” she agreed.

The silence that descended was of a different nature—the quiet realization of two geniuses standing amidst the results of their shared creation. They had fashioned something entirely new, a breakthrough that promised to preserve lives.

As the mist began to thin, you approached her. She tracked your movement, her gaze steady.

“We did it,” you sighed out, stopping a few steps away. You were close enough to see the brilliance in her eyes and observe every fine detail of her features.

“We did it,” she repeated softly.

And then, without quite knowing how it happened, you were holding each other.

Her arms wrapped around your waist. Your arms wrapped around her shoulders. She was so small, so warm, and she fit against you like she had always been meant to be there.

“You’re incredible,” she murmured against your collarbone.

“We’re incredible,” you corrected.

She laughed—that bright, unguarded laugh you’d only heard a handful of times. “Fine. We’re incredible. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

She pulled back just enough to look at you. Her face was inches from yours, her breath warm against your chin. The last traces of purple mist swirled around you both, catching the light like scattered jewels.

“We should document the results,” she said. “The dispersal pattern, the density gradient, the—”

“Shinobu.”

“Yes?”

“We can document it tomorrow.”

She blinked. “______, the data is time-sensitive. If we don’t measure the residual concentration now—”

“It’ll still be there in the morning.”

Your eyes locked, neither of you willing to look away first.

“You are being remarkably difficult,” she remarked.

“I think I’m being perfectly sensible,” you countered. “It’s you who is acting like a Hashira.”

A small tremor moved through her jaw. “I am a Hashira. It’s not something I can turn off.”

“I understand that.” You reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear, your hand coming to rest against the warmth of her cheek. “I’m not asking you to stop being who you are. I’m just asking you to stay in this moment. To be here, with me, just for a second.”

Shinobu became impossibly still.

She scrutinized your expression, searching for a sign—perhaps seeking consent, a reason to hesitate, or a reason to let go.

“I am always by your side, ______,” she replied in a soft voice.

“That isn’t what I’m talking about,” you said.

“I know.”

The quiet between you grew heavy as the purple mist drifted away. Above, the first faint stars began to pierce through the darkening blue of the twilight.

“…You’re very difficult,” Shinobu said finally, repeating her words as though nothing else fitted you.

“So I’ve been told.”

“You make me want things I don’t know how to want.”

Your heart stuttered. “What kind of things?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached up and took your hand from her cheek, holding it between both of hers. Her thumb traced the lines of your palm—the same way she’d done in the laboratory, that first time, when she’d told you your heart rate was elevated.

“Come,” she said, pulling you gently toward the path back to the estate. “We should wash the mist off before it irritates our skin. And then—”

“And then?”

“And then we should eat something. Aoi left rice balls in the kitchen. She’ll be insufferable if we let them go to waste.”

You let her pull you along, your hand still in hers, your chest full to bursting with something you still didn’t have a name for.

· · ─────── · 𓅪 · ─────── · ·

Two days passed before you crossed paths with Rengoku in the east garden.

He was positioned on a bench under the morning sun, balancing a wooden sword across his lap. Though bandages still shielded his left eye, his right was sharp and attentive, following a butterfly as it darted through the air. He appeared rejuvenated; his strength was returning, his complexion had brightened, and the heavy chest dressings had been replaced by a subtle strip of cloth just visible beneath his yukata collar.

“______-san!” His thunderous greeting sent the butterfly into a panicked flight. “A fine morning to you! You have risen quite early!”

You offered a bow. “Good morning, Rengoku-san,” you replied, lingering for a moment in uncertainty.

He gestured to the space next to him, effectively choosing for you. “Sit with me! It seems there is much on your mind. UMU! You will find I am a most attentive listener!”

You took your seat on the sun-warmed wood. Rengoku sat beside you, radiating a furnace-like heat that seemed to invigorate the very air around him.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“The boys?” you asked finally.

“No news yet.” His voice was steady, but something flickered behind his eye. “Uzui is capable. The boys are strong. We must trust in their strength.”

“You’re worried.”

“I am always worried.” He turned to look at you, and his expression softened. “But worry is not the same as doubt. I do not doubt them. I simply… wait. And waiting is the hardest part of any battle.”

You looked down at your hands.

“I know something about waiting,” you said quietly.

Rengoku hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. “You do. You have been waiting since the day you arrived. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the story to go the way you expected it to go.”

Your head snapped up, eyes searching his.

“I am not blind, ______-san.” His smile was gentle. “I may have lost an eye, but I have not lost my perception. You knew things you should not have known. You prepared for things that had not yet happened. And you have been holding your breath ever since, waiting for the moment when your knowledge would fail you.”

“That’s—” You hesitated, a lump forming in your throat. “That’s not wrong.”

“I thought not.” He turned his face toward the sun, closing his eye. “But you have not failed yet. The compound worked. I am alive. The war has shifted. Every day that passes, your knowledge becomes less relevant, and your actions become more significant. You are no longer a prophet, ______-san. You are a participant in this war.”

The words landed like stones in still water.

“I don’t know how to be a participant,” you admitted. “I spent so long just… watching. Observing. Making sure I didn’t change anything I wasn’t supposed to change.”

“And now?”

You thought about the prototype. The mist. Shinobu’s face in the purple glow, illuminated by something the two of you had built together.

“Now I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

Rengoku opened his eye and looked at you. Really looked, the way he looked at everything—with his whole attention, his whole presence, like you were the only person in the world.

“You are supposed to live,” he said simply. “That is what we are all trying to do. Live. Protect the people we love. And find reasons to keep going when the darkness presses close.”

“I have my reasons to stay,” you murmured.

“I know.” His smile widened. “She is a very good reason.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “I didn’t— That isn’t what—”

“You do not have to explain yourself to me, ______-san.” He reached over and placed his large, warm hand on your shoulder. “The heart wants what it wants. And Kocho… she has been waiting for someone to see her. Truly see her. Isn’t that what everyone wants?”

“She doesn’t make it easy.”

“No,” Rengoku agreed. “She does not. But nothing worth having is easy.” He squeezed your shoulder, then released it. “You are afraid.”

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

You thought about it. About all the things you were afraid of—the war, the future, the endings you still couldn’t prevent. But underneath all of that, there was something smaller. More personal.

“I’m afraid of telling her,” you said. “And I’m afraid of not telling her. I’m afraid of ruining what we have. I’m afraid of—” You took a moment before continuing. “I’m afraid of needing her. Because needing someone means you can lose them.”

Rengoku was quiet for a long moment.

“That is the most honest thing anyone has said to me in months,” he said finally. “And you are right. Needing someone does mean you can lose them. But it also means you can find them. And finding someone, truly finding them, is worth the risk of loss. UMU! It is the only thing that makes the loss bearable when it comes!”

You stared at him.

“When did you get so wise?” you asked.

He laughed, that booming, earth-shaking laugh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. “I have always been wise! You were simply not paying attention!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, too. It felt good. Lighter than you had felt in days.

“Thank you, Rengoku-san,” you sighed.

“Thank me by being happy,” he replied simply. “Kocho deserves happiness. And so do you.”

He picked up his wooden sword, rose from the bench, and walked back toward the mansion, leaving you alone in the garden with your thoughts and the warm morning sun.

· · ─────── · 𓅪 · ─────── · ·

The days after Rengoku’s advice, you saw everything differently.

Not the compound, that was still the same frustrating, brilliant, painstaking work it had always been.

But Shinobu.

You saw Shinobu differently.

You saw the way she smiled at the butterfly girls when she thought no one was watching, a soft, unguarded expression that made her look almost young.

You saw the way she stood at the window during storms, her hand pressed against the glass, her eyes tracking the lightning like she was counting the seconds until the thunder.

You saw the way she touched things. Her equipment, her notebooks, the glass vials lining the shelves—she handled everything with the same careful, deliberate reverence, as if she understood that everything in the world was fragile and might break if mishandled.

Including herself.

You saw the way she said goodnight to Kanao, a soft, almost inaudible “sleep well” that she delivered without looking up from her work, as if the words were too precious to be offered directly.

You saw the way she breathed when she thought you weren’t watching. Deep, measured, controlled—the breathing of someone who had trained herself to regulate every autonomic function. But sometimes, when the work was going well, or when you made her laugh, the breathing would falter. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.

She was not the woman you had watched on a screen.

She was not the Insect Hashira, the poison master, the vengeance-fueled weapon.

She was Shinobu. Just Shinobu. A woman who had lost everything and was still standing, still fighting, still finding reasons to smile even when the world gave her none.

And you were falling for her.

Not falling—that implied a sudden drop, a loss of control. This was slower. More deliberate. Like watching a flower open petal by petal, each movement too small to notice until suddenly the bloom was there, full and undeniable.

You had been falling since the first morning in the garden, when she’d sat beside you with her hair down and her mask off and told you about her sister.

You had been falling since the night in the laboratory, when she’d called you mine and meant it.

You had been falling since the grove, since the confession, since the almost-kiss interrupted by thunder.

And now, sitting across from her in the lamplight, watching her frown at a recalcitrant distillation coil, you realized you had hit the ground.

I have feelings for her, you thought.

Oh no.

The words were so simple. So inadequate. But they were true.

You had feelings for Shinobu Kocho.

Feelings that went beyond partnership, beyond friendship, beyond the easy camaraderie of shared work. Feelings that made your chest ache when she laughed, and your hands tremble when she touched you, and your heart stutter when she said your name.

Feelings that were, objectively, terribly inconvenient.

The boys were still in Yoshiwara. The mission was still ongoing. Any day now, a crow could arrive with news—good or bad, you didn’t know which—and everything could change.

This was not the time.

This was not the place.

And yet.

And yet, sitting here, watching her work, feeling the weight of everything unsaid pressing against your ribs, you realized you couldn’t keep it inside anymore.

Not because you expected anything from her.

Not because you wanted to change what you had.

But because she had asked you not to hide. Because she had trusted you with her fears, her grief, her desperate hope for a future she had never allowed herself to imagine.

Because she deserved to know that someone saw her.

All of her.

And stayed anyway.

“Shinobu,” you said.

She looked up from the distillation coil. “Mm?”

“I need to tell you something.”

She set down her tools, her violet eyes sharpening with immediate concern. “What is it? Is something wrong? Did a crow—”

“No.” You shook your head. “Nothing’s wrong. I just—” You pressed your hands flat against your thighs. The familiar anchor. The familiar fear. “I need to say something, and I need you to let me finish before you respond. Can you do that?”

Shinobu studied your face for a long moment. Whatever she saw there made her expression shift—from concern to something else. Something softer. More careful.

“Of course,” she said quietly.

You took a breath, held it, and let it go.

“I have feelings for you.”

The words hung in the air between you, simple and devastating.

Shinobu didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Her face was a mask of absolute, perfect stillness—the mask she wore when she was processing something she hadn’t expected.

“I know this isn’t the right time,” you continued, your voice steady despite the trembling in your hands. “The boys are still in Yoshiwara. The mission isn’t over. There’s a war happening, and people are dying, and I should be focused on the compound and the poison and everything else that actually matters.”

You swallowed.

“But I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop noticing the way you say my name, or the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention, or the way you fit against my side when we’re sitting on the engawa. I can’t stop—” Your voice cracked, just slightly. “I can’t stop wanting to be near you. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it’s dangerous. Even when I know that getting attached to people in this world is a terrible idea because everyone dies and nothing is guaranteed.”

Shinobu’s lips parted. No sound came out.

“You asked me not to hide,” you continued. “You told me I could be honest with you. And I’ve been trying. I’ve been trying so hard to be honest about everything, about what I know, about where I’m from, about the future I’m trying to change. But the one thing I haven’t been honest about is this.”

You gestured vaguely at the space between you. At the weight of everything unsaid.

“I don’t expect you to feel the same way,” you almost whimpered. “I don’t expect you to do anything with this. I just— I didn’t want to hide it anymore. I didn’t want to keep pretending that you’re just my partner, just my colleague, just the person I happen to spend eighteen hours a day with in a locked room.”

You took another breath.

“You’re more than that to me, Shinobu. You mean so much to me. You’re—” You searched for words that didn’t exist. “You’re the reason I’m still here. The reason I keep trying. The reason I believe that the future can be different, even when everything I know tells me it can’t.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Shinobu stared at you. Her face was still a mask, but behind it—behind the careful, pleasant stillness—something was happening. Something you couldn’t read.

“I’m not asking for an answer,” you said quickly. “I’m not asking for anything, actually. I just—I wanted you to know. Because you deserve to know. Because someone should tell you that they see you, all of you, and they’re not running away. I’m not running away.”

The lamp flickered. The wisteria rustled outside the window.

And Shinobu Kocho, the Insect Hashira, the woman who had faced down demons without flinching, the woman who had poisoned her own body in service of revenge—

Blushed.

It started at her collarbone and spread upward, a slow, inexorable tide of pink that crept across her throat, her jaw, her cheeks. Her lips parted. Her eyes widened. She looked, for the first time since you’d known her, completely and utterly lost.

“I—” she began.

She cut herself off.

Tried once more.

“You—”

She faltered again.

Pressing a trembling hand to her face as if to gauge a rising fever, she finally spoke in a voice that sounded both unfamiliar and far away. “You have feelings for me.”

“I do.”

“Romantic feelings.”

“Yes.”

She stared at you. The pink had deepened to red. Her ears were burning. Her hand was still pressed to her cheek, and she looked like she was having trouble processing basic sensory information.

“That’s—” She swallowed. “That’s not—”

“I told you,” you said gently. “You don’t have to respond. I just wanted you to know.”

“But I—” She shook her head, a quick, jerky movement. “I don’t— I haven’t—”

She stood up so abruptly her stool nearly tipped over.

You watched her, your heart hammering, as she walked to the window and pressed her forehead against the glass. Her back was to you, her shoulders rigid, her hands clenched at her sides.

“I was prepared to die,” she said, her voice muffled. “I had a plan. A timeline. A method. I knew exactly how it would end, and I was at peace with it. I was at peace with never feeling this again.”

“Feeling what?” you asked softly.

She turned. Her face was still flushed, her eyes still wide, but the mask had cracked entirely. What you saw underneath was raw.

Exposed.

Terrified.

“Feeling like I want to live,” she said. “Feeling like there’s something worth living for. Feeling like—” She stopped and pressed her hand to her chest, such a human action, you ached. “Feeling like my heart is beating too fast and I don’t know how to make it stop, and I’m not sure I want to.”

You rose from your stool and walked toward her slowly, giving her time to step away.

She didn’t step away.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know what to do with you. I’ve spent years building walls, and you— you just walked through them like they weren’t even there. Like they were paper. Like I was paper.”

“Shinobu—”

“I’m not good at this.” She looked up at you, and her eyes were bright with something that looked like desperation. “I’m not good at feelings. I’m not good at wanting things. I’m not good at letting people in. I’m good at chemistry. I’m good at poisons. I’m good at killing demons. I’m not good at—”

“You’re good at being human,” you interrupted. “You’re just out of practice.”

She stared at you.

“That’s a very mean thing to say,” she frowned slightly.

“It’s true.”

“It’s still mean.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed—a soft, breathless sound that seemed to surprise both of you.

Shinobu’s lips twitched. Just slightly. Just enough.

“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t— I haven’t—”

“—You don’t have to say anything.” You reached out, slowly, and took her hand. She didn’t pull away. “I told you. I’m not asking for an answer. I’m not asking for anything. I just wanted you to know.”

“You’re very patient,” she said.

“I’m very scared,” you corrected. “There’s a difference.”

She looked down at your joined hands. Her thumb traced the lines of your palm—the same gesture she’d used so many times before. But this time, it felt different. Intentional. Like she was memorizing the shape of you.

“I’m scared too,” she admitted quietly. “I’m scared of what this means. I’m scared of what happens next. I’m scared of— I’m scared of wanting this. Of wanting you. Because wanting things means you can lose them. And I’ve lost enough.”

“Me too,” you smiled softly. “But I’ve also learned that not wanting things doesn’t protect you from losing them. It just means you lose them without ever having had them at all.”

Shinobu was quiet for a long moment.

“That’s very wise,” she said finally.

“Rengoku-san taught me.”

A surprised laugh escaped her, short and sharp and utterly genuine. “Of course he did.”

She tightened her grip on your hand, a rhythmic pressure—once, then twice—before pulling away. As she stepped back, the space between you expanded, suddenly feeling like an unbridgeable chasm.

“I need a moment,” she whispered, her hands moving restlessly as if trying to grasp the intangible air between you. “To think. To—” She paused, gesturing toward her heart, then the room, and the silence. “To understand.”

“Take all the time you need,” you replied.

She gave a single, solemn nod before turning toward the exit. Her fingers lingered on the doorframe for a heartbeat, her back still toward you.

“______,” she called out.

“Yes?”

“…I am not saying no.”

The weight of her admission settled heavily in the room.

“I don’t have the words yet,” she added. “But I know I am not saying no.”

“I understand,” you said softly.

She remained motionless for a second longer before sliding the door open. As she disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, she left you in the glow of the lamp, surrounded by the scent of wisteria and the ghost of chamomile tea.

Retreating to your stool, you felt the tremors in your hands.

The frantic rhythm of your heart echoed in the silence.

Yet, buried deep within you—beneath the anxiety and the crushing uncertainty of a future you were desperate to alter—something resilient began to take root.

Hope.

╭──── · · ୨୧ · · ────╮

╰──── · · ୨୧ · · ────╯

大正コソコソ噂話 — Taishō Kosokoso Iwasubanashi

After the confession, Shinobu did not return to the laboratory for three hours.

Aoi found her sitting in the garden, staring at the wisteria with an expression she had never seen on the Insect Hashira’s face before—flushed, unfocused, and utterly, completely lost.

Aoi did not ask what had happened. She simply sat down beside her, handed her a cup of tea, and waited.

After a long silence, Shinobu said, very quietly: “She has feelings for me.”

Aoi blinked. “And this is… surprising?”

“I thought she would be more subtle about it.”

Aoi stared at her. Shinobu stared at the wisteria.

“You are hopeless,” Aoi said finally.

“I am aware.”

They sat in silence for a while longer. Then Shinobu stood, smoothed her haori, and walked toward the laboratory with her shoulders set and her chin raised. She did not mention the confession again.

But Aoi noticed that she was smiling. Just slightly. Just enough.

Always just enough

A/N

Ahhhh! It happeneddddd!!!

You guys couldn’t wait for a confession to happen, I couldn’t too!!!! There were so many times I wanted them to just confess right then and there because UGH the tension! But I wanted it to be rewarding, I wanted it to be when Shinobu was in a better state of mind, not clouded by her vices and mistakes.

I want it to be “just Shinobu”.

I listened to Eternity by Alex Warren, and A Thousand Years by John Michael Howell on repeat while writing this, so give them a listen!

I have the next chapter lined up too, just need some beta reading here and there, and it’ll be up, see you guys soon, love you all very much!