The Yakuza's flower

Little routine

Ume's POV

Ever since we started sleeping together again, we've been... hanging out.

I wouldn't call it dating. We're not together. Not officially. Not really.

But he shows up.

Sometimes he eats dinner at my place. Sometimes he comes with me to the stores, walking behind me and Prince like some silent shadow. Sometimes he just sits on the couch while I fold laundry, baby on my hip, neither of us saying much—but the silence is full. Heavy. Familiar.

Today was one of those days.

Prince had been fussy for over an hour—tossing his tiny fists around, whining in that way that meant he was tired but refusing to sleep.

I rocked him gently, whispering soft Spanish lullabies under my breath, pacing the living room like a ghost. Hanayama was sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, just... watching.

I was getting tired so I figured he could help.

"Do you want to hold him?" I asked.

He blinked, slow. "No."

"Why not?"

He shifted like the couch suddenly got uncomfortable. "Too small. I might hurt him."

I raised an eyebrow. "He's a baby, not glass. You won't."

He didn't answer, so I walked over.

"Here," I said softly. "I'll show you."

He looked at me like I was asking him to defuse a bomb. Still, he stood. I guided his hands—one under Prince's head, one under his legs—and slowly transferred the baby into his arms.

His muscles tensed like he was lifting something fragile and sacred. It was stiff at first, awkward. Prince squirmed, whined... then settled.

Tiny fingers curled around Hanayama's clan pin.

"You're doing fine," I said.

He glanced down. "He's light."

"They don't stay like that forever ," I whispered, suddenly feeling more exposed than I expected.

Hanayama didn't say anything. He just stood there, holding my son like the world might break if he didn't get it right.

"He likes you," I murmured.

"He's yours."

I swallowed that too quickly. "Doesn't mean you can't hold him."

He nodded, slowly

But he didn't give Prince back.

And I didn't ask.

I just sat beside him on the couch, pulling my knees up under me, watching the way his massive hands cradled something so small.

Prince had already started dozing off again—his cheek smushed against Hanayama's chest, one tiny fist curled in his shirt.

"You're a natural," I said lightly, the corners of my mouth tugging up.

His eyes didn't leave the baby. "No, I'm not."

"You are," I said, tilting my head. "You just look like you've been doing this for years."

He was quiet for a beat. "He's not crying."

I smiled, softer now. "That's because he likes you."

Hanayama glanced down at Prince again, then back at me. "That supposed to make me feel something?"