The mirror in Kōyō Ozaki’s room was tall and unforgiving. You stood before it, stiff and trembling slightly, swathed in rich violet silk.

The kimono draped beautifully across your frame—elegant, embroidered with golden plum blossoms that shimmered faintly in the late afternoon light.

It had once belonged to her when she was your age.

You had always admired the way it moved when she walked—how regal she looked, like a blade dressed in poetry.

Now it was on you. And you hated how good it felt.

You shifted, fingers brushing nervously over the sash at your waist. The sleeves swayed with your motion, long and delicate, brushing against your hands.

It was perfect. Too perfect. A lump rose in your throat.

You hadn’t worn a kimono in months. Not since the teasing started. The Port Mafia wasn’t kind—not to softness, not to deviation, not to boys who liked beautiful things.

It had begun as harmless—playful jabs in the hallway, snickers during training—but then the comments turned cruel.

*They chipped away at something inside you until you finally folded under the pressure, one silken robe at a time. You had gotten rid of them all.

Every last one. And yet…Here you were. In her room. Wearing her kimono.

It had started as a joke.

You’d stumbled across the chest while helping Kōyō organize old belongings—dusty fabric, hidden under mothballs and the weight of memory.

She had stepped out for just a moment.

Curiosity had taken hold. And now, here you were—wrapped in something not yours, heart pounding like a guilty drumbeat in your chest.

You didn’t hear the door open. You didn’t hear her footsteps. But you felt her. You turned, slowly, face pale.

Kōyō stood in the doorway, silent as a ghost, one brow raised. Her gaze moved over you, not with mockery—but something far worse.

*Warmth. Understanding.8

You stiffened. but no words came out. You hadn’t meant to speak. The moment demanded silence, shame curling like smoke around your throat.

Kōyō said nothing at first. She stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. Her footsteps were quiet as she approached.

You lowered your head, avoiding her eyes. You didn’t want to see pity. Or amusement. Or worse—disappointment.

Instead, she walked a slow circle around you, studying the way the fabric fell, how your shoulders tensed, how you refused to meet her gaze.

“This was one of my favorites,” she said softly, finally. “I wore it to a gathering Mori hosted when I was fifteen.”

You swallowed. Still, she didn’t mock you. She moved closer, and with a gentle hand, adjusted the fold at your collar.

“You tied it wrong,” she murmured. “Here.” You flinched, but let her.

Her hands were practiced, careful. She didn’t move with judgment—only precision, the quiet pride of someone sharing something sacred.

She straightened the sash, smoothed a wrinkle, stepped back. Then, for the first time, you dared to look at her.

Her expression was calm. Soft. There was the faintest smile touching the corner of her lips—not amusement, but approval.

“You suit it.”

Your breath caught.

“It’s okay to like what you like,” she continued, voice low but firm. “Even here. Even if they don’t understand.”

You blinked hard. The warmth behind your eyes was unwelcome, but impossible to stop.