The Yakuza's flower

I've Been thinking

Ume's POV

Things have been going pretty good lately.

2 weeks had passed since I told hanayama I was pregnant.

And he's has been... different.

Not in a bad way.

In a scary soft, devastatingly gentle, why-are-you-like-this kind of way.

He's been very supportive and active around me.

Always checking on me without actually saying much.

If I stood up too fast, he'd say, "Slow."
If I reached for something heavy, his hand would appear before I even touched it.
If I looked tired, he'd pull me into his side without asking.

Oh!

And slowly...

my clothes have been betraying me.

One by one, my old outfits stopped fitting.
Waistbands fighting for their lives.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered one morning, staring at a pair of jeans that absolutely would not go past my hips. "I'm barely showing!"

After wrestling with some pants for a full minute, I gave up with an annoyed huff and put on a cute skirt and a loose top instead. At least those still fit.

I walked out of my room feeling mildly defeated...

and then I froze.

Something felt off.

Not wrong.
Just... missing.

I looked around the living room, then the hallway.

My shelves looked a little emptier.
The shoe rack was less crowded.
My vanity drawer felt lighter when I pulled it open.

Slowly — over the past week — most of my things had been disappearing from my home and reappearing at Hanayama's.

My jackets?
Gone.
Found neatly hung in his closet.

My favorite mugs?
Gone.
Sitting in his kitchen cabinet like they belonged there.

My self-care bag?
Gone.
In his bathroom, right next to his shaving stuff.

At first I thought I was losing my mind.

But no.

There was only one culprit.

And of course — right on cue — the front door opened and Hanayama walked in carrying a bag of groceries like he lived here.

"Morning," he said, placing the bag on the counter.

"Hanayama."

He grunted. "Mm?"

I crossed my arms.
"Are you... taking my things?"

He didn't look guilty.
At all.

He didn't even blink.

"Yeah," he said simply.

My mouth dropped open.
"Why?"

"You stay at my place more," he answered like it was obvious. "You should have your stuff there."

"That doesn't mean you get to steal it!" I said

"Didn't steal."
He shrugged.
"Moving."

"Moving what?"

"You," he said, deadpan.

I choked on air.
"Excuse me?"

"You," he repeated calmly. "And your things."