The Yakuza's flower

The arrival

Ume's POV

Things have been going well lately.

Really well.

Hanayama and I finally settled into a routine—one that didn't feel forced or negotiated, but natural. I was getting used to my role as his future wife, learning the quiet expectations that came with it, the unspoken rhythms of his life.

Most of my things from my old house had been moved in with him now. Little pieces of me tucked into his space—clothes in his drawers, books on his shelves, traces of a life slowly blending into his.

The twins were growing quickly.
And so was my belly.

I was definitely showing.

I avoided tight clothes without thinking about it too much—oversized hoodies, soft sweaters, anything loose enough to make me feel comfortable. Safe. There was something grounding about dressing this way, like I was protecting more than just myself.

Prince, on the other hand, was thriving.

He'd completely fallen in love with Hanayama.

"Dada," he called him constantly, toddling after him with determined little steps. Half the time, he chose Hanayama over me, arms reaching out without hesitation.

Talk about heartbreak.

But I couldn't even be upset. Watching them together filled my chest with something warm, something steady. Seeing Prince laugh when Hanayama lifted him, the way Hanayama pretended not to notice how tightly Prince clung to him... it felt like a glimpse of a future I hadn't dared to imagine before.

We had about three weeks left until the wedding.

The days slipped by faster than I expected, marked by quiet preparations instead of chaos. No panic. No last-minute disasters. Just small moments stitched together—appointments, fittings, conversations that ended in soft laughter instead of stress.

——-

One afternoon, I stood still while careful hands adjusted layers of fabric around me.

My kimono fitting came first.

The silk was cool against my skin, heavier than I expected. Every fold mattered. Every movement had meaning. I watched my reflection as the women worked, my hands resting instinctively over my stomach, aware of the life growing beneath the fabric.

Later came the dress.

Different. Lighter. Western in design, but no less significant. Lace brushed my shoulders, and the mirror reflected a version of me I never imagined.

"This one suits you," someone murmured behind me.

I turned around.

My grandmother stood there, hands clasped in front of her, eyes soft as she took me in..

They began to water almost immediately.

"Oh... my little girl," she murmured to herself, her voice trembling.

Something in my chest gave.

I stepped down carefully and wrapped my arms around her, pressing my face into her shoulder. She held me tightly, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other resting protectively against my back.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

She smelled like a familiar perfume and home, and being held by her felt like being reminded of every version of myself I'd ever been.

"You look beautiful," she whispered into my hair. "And strong."

I swallowed hard, holding on just a little longer than I meant to.