The Yakuza's flower

Playing family

Kizaki's POV

I'm not nosy by nature. Comes with the job—you keep your head down, pay attention when it counts, and mind your own damn business the rest of the time.

But lately, I've been watching Hanayama more than I'd like to admit.

He doesn't talk about her. Not directly. But I've seen the change in him. Less smoke in his lungs, more silence in his eyes. He's distracted. Not the kind that makes him sloppy—no, he's still sharp as hell—but the kind that pulls him out of the room even when he's standing right there.

It started slow. A name mentioned too casually. Disappearing at odd hours. Always coming back with that quiet weight on his shoulders—like he'd gone somewhere soft and let himself feel again, only to slam the door shut on the way out.

I didn't ask. Didn't have to.

It was Ume.
Always her.

One morning, I was out at the stores.

I saw them... Hanayama, Ume, and the baby.

Ume was pushing the stroller
Moving slow, steady, pausing every few feet to look at things she was probably going to buy.

Hanayama behind her
Hands in his pockets. Shoulders square.
Watching her and the kid.

They looked like a little family.... It was something special in a sense if they actually were one...

The scene shouldn't have rattled me.
But it did.

Because Hanayama has never played house. Not once. Not even close. He's not the type.

But this wasn't an accident.

I shouldn't have been watching.

I stepped back, quietly as I could. Heart a little heavier than before.

A little family
A strange, broken, beautiful little family.

But I knew better.

Hanayama's pretending he's not already too far gone. And Ume... she's pretending she doesn't see it.

And I'm stuck on the outside, watching two people circle around something they won't say out loud.

God help them both.

I felt like it was my job to pull hanayama out of his mind and talk to him straight.

One night at the club
Hanayama was sitting out back behind the club, same spot he always goes when he wants to be left alone.

He was smoking again.
That told me enough.
He'd been with her

I sat down beside him without asking. He didn't look at me. Just flicked ash off the edge of the step and stared at the dark sky like it owed him answers.

"You were at her place again," I said after a minute.

He didn't answer. Didn't move.

"She let you in?"

A nod. Small. Barely there.

"And the baby?"

Another pause. Then: "he's getting bigger."

That's all he said. Like it was an observation, not something that tore at him every time he saw it.

I looked over. He was staring straight ahead, jaw locked, eyes shadowed under the dim lights. Not angry. Not even sad. Just... still. Like stone eroding in slow motion.

"You two aren't back together, are you ?" I asked

"No."

"But you keep going back."

He didn't reply. Just took a drag and exhaled slow, the smoke drifting between us.

I had to be honest with him

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "You know how that looks, right?"

He didn't flinch.

"Like a man standing in someone else's home, pretending it's his."

At that, his eyes shifted toward me. Just once. Heavy.

"She doesn't stop me," he said.

"That doesn't mean you should be there. The kid isn't yours, and you were the one who pushed her away. "

Silence stretched again.

After a long while, I said, something softer this time, "You still love her... Don't you?"

He looked away.

And I got it.

That was all the answer I was ever going to get.
And maybe the only one he knew how to give.

He wasn't just haunted by her.
He was living in it. Every step back to her door was a ghost of what they could've had—one he couldn't stop chasing.
And maybe she let him in because it was easier than telling him no.
Or maybe—just maybe—she couldn't say no.

Either way, it wasn't healing.

It was limping together through something half-dead.

I sat back, watching the smoke curl out from between his fingers like it was trying to crawl away too.

"She's not a safe place," I muttered.

He didn't say anything.
Just stood up, slow and heavy, like the night had finally sunk into his bones.
Tossed the cigarette to the ground and walked off without looking back.

I stayed a while longer.

Let the silence settle.

Let the smoke fade.

Moments like this make me wish someone had taught him what love's supposed to look like.
Or at least given him something better than whatever the hell he grew up with.

Because right now...
All he knows how to do is lose it.

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