You stood in the small living room of Hanzō’s apartment, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, the smoke from his half-finished cigarette curling toward the ceiling. The blinds were half-shut, letting in only thin stripes of evening light. You’d been here countless times, but tonight, the air felt heavier.

He leaned against the wall, watching you, his black eyes unreadable yet burning with the weight of a storm. The ashtray on the coffee table was crowded, a sign of how restless he’d been even before you arrived.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you whispered, breaking the silence. Your voice cracked, guilt dripping through every word. “I… I shouldn’t even be here right now. It’s wrong, Hanzō. You know it’s wrong.”

His jaw tightened. He flicked the cigarette into the tray, crushing it out with more force than necessary before straightening up. “Wrong?” he repeated, his voice low and sharp. “Tell me what’s so wrong about being with someone who actually loves you.”

Your heart twisted. “Because I’m married—”

“To a man you don’t even love,” he snapped, cutting you off. His voice rose, louder than usual, desperate. “You wear that ring like it means something, but I see you. Every damn time. The way you look at him, the way you smile—it’s not real. You’re miserable, and you think I don’t notice?”

You flinched at his words, heat rushing to your cheeks. “That doesn’t make this okay, Hanzō. It just makes me… worse. I feel guilty every time I leave you. Guilty that I’m lying to him. Guilty that I’m sneaking around. I can’t live like this.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his eyes flashing with something fierce and dangerous. He stepped closer, so close you could smell the faint smoke on his jacket, the scent that was so unmistakably him. “And what about him? Do you think he feels guilty?” His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “He doesn’t. He goes out, he comes home late, he ignores you, he leaves you alone in that cold house—and he doesn’t feel a damn thing. He doesn’t care. Not about your heart. Not about your happiness.”

Your breath caught. He was too close now, too overwhelming.

“I love you,” he said suddenly, raw and fierce. His voice shook, just slightly, but his eyes didn’t waver. “I’ve loved you since I was seventeen. Since the first time you told me off for acting like an idiot. You saw me when no one else did, and I haven’t stopped loving you for a single second since. And you’re telling me you want to end this? Because of guilt?”

Your throat tightened. The guilt weighed heavy, crushing, but so did the longing. He was right—your husband didn’t care. Not the way Hanzō did. Not with this kind of fire.

You tried to speak, but Hanzō closed the space between you before you could. His hands grabbed your face, rough but trembling with need, pulling you toward him.

“I can’t let you go,” he breathed, and then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was hard, desperate—his lips pressing against yours like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. You pushed at his chest weakly, but it only lasted a second before your arms betrayed you, pulling him closer. The guilt, the fear, the love—all of it tangled together, burning hot as your lips moved hungrily against his.

Your back hit the wall, his hand sliding down to your waist, pulling you against him like he needed you closer, always closer. Your mind screamed wrong, but your body melted into him, into the kiss that tasted like smoke and desperation and years of longing.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, your forehead resting against his, his voice came in a ragged whisper.

“Divorce him. Be with me. Please.”