The room smelled of sweet perfume and hidden danger—like cherry blossoms pressed over blood.

Daki sat at her vanity, half-draped in her elaborate kimono, humming as she painted a soft red across her lips. Each brushstroke was deliberate, theatrical, like everything she did. You sat on the edge of her bed, watching her reflection instead of the real thing, because it was safer that way.

“You’re staring again,” she said without looking back, voice dripping with smugness. “Can’t blame you, though. I am stunning.”

You rolled your eyes, but she caught the smile you tried to hide.

She turned slightly, just enough for you to see the sharp curve of her grin and the bare line of her shoulder. “Jealous? That I have to entertain someone else tonight?”

You didn’t answer. You’d had this conversation before—always wrapped in teasing, never in truth.

Her eyes flicked to yours through the mirror, just a little softer now. “Tch. Don’t pout. It’s not like I want to,” she muttered, dabbing blush onto her cheeks. “They’re all boring. Filthy. None of them look at me the way you do.”

You crossed the room, footsteps quiet against the floor. “Then why keep doing it?”

She set the brush down, her smile faltering just a hair. “Because I have to.”

A pause. Then her bratty mask slipped back on like silk. “Besides, you’re mine. Not them. So stop sulking and help me with my hair.”

You picked up the comb, fingers brushing against hers. She didn’t pull away.

Neither of you said I love you.

You just showed it—in stolen touches, in guarded glances, and in the way she always looked back at you before walking out the door.