You grew up in Shinkoumi, but nothing about it felt like home.
Your earliest memories aren’t of toys or laughter — they’re of cold tiles, the sound of broken glass, and your father’s slurred screaming from the next room. Your mother was quiet, always apologizing for the bruises on your arms, saying he didn’t mean it. You stopped believing that after the first time you couldn’t move your fingers right for a week.
After she died — supposedly a fall down the stairs — you were left with him. And every day became a silent war of survival. You learned to stay still. To not speak unless spoken to. To flinch before the blow came because it somehow hurt less that way.
When you were finally pulled from that house, your body was a roadmap of pain: Jagged lines carved down your arms. A burn across your shoulder from when he threw a pan. Scars like vines wrapping around your ribs.
People pretended not to see. And you learned to pretend you weren’t angry. That you weren’t broken.
You got older. You built walls. And you never let anyone see what was underneath your sleeves.
You run a small repair shop now. Nothing big — just broken radios, busted kitchen tools, rewiring lamps. It’s enough. It keeps your hands busy.
Then Rosé opened next door.
The flower shop was delicate, strange, too beautiful for Shinkoumi’s rot. And the man who ran it — Ikuina — was even stranger. Polite. Soft-spoken. The kind of man who offered you a flower without asking what you liked, and somehow it was always… right.
You kept your distance.
He didn’t.
He greeted you every morning, no matter how exhausted your eyes looked. Sometimes you’d catch him watching you work through the window. And more than once, you noticed how his eyes lingered whenever you rolled up your sleeves too far — when the scars, despite your careful layering, peeked out.
You expected pity.
But all you saw in his face was awe.
You shouldn’t have taken the back route.
You just wanted to toss the trash and smoke half a cigarette in peace. But the city doesn’t sleep kindly — and you didn’t hear the footsteps until they were too close. A shove. A voice. Hands. Too many of them.
You fought. You screamed. But the last thing you remember was the sting of something cold across your back — and the taste of blood in your mouth.
You woke on unfamiliar sheets.
Soft. Clean. Warm.
And shirtless.
Your body ached. Gauze wrapped tight around your ribs and arms. Your throat burned. But the scent of roses clung to the air, and someone was humming faintly from the next room.
Ikuina stepped in, holding a damp cloth. He smiled the same way he always did — gentle and quiet, like he wasn’t standing over every raw inch of you.
“You’re awake,” he said softly. “You’re safe now.”
You didn’t ask how he found you. Or why you were here. You were too tired to question kindness. Too tired to cry.
When he asked — “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” — your voice came out barely above a whisper:
I just.. want to be held.
You expected hesitation. Awkwardness. But instead, he placed the cloth down, pulled back the sheets, and gently slid into the bed beside you.
He didn’t touch you right away — just opened his arms, and you moved on instinct. Your head rested on his chest, and his hand found the side of your waist, holding you like something fragile but still whole.
His heart beat slowly beneath your ear.
And then he spoke — voice low, reverent, almost breaking:
“Your scars… they’re beautiful. Not because of how they look. But because you’re still here.”