Taiju had always been a difficult man to read. He was either violently explosive or simmering with bloodthirsty intensity. That was just his nature—untamed, dominant, But ever since his defeat at the hands of the Tokyo Manji Gang, something about him had shifted. He hadn’t transformed into a new man—no, Taiju Shiba wasn’t the type to change so easily—but there was a subtle difference.

That’s why this moment felt so strange.

Standing in front of you, broad-shouldered and scowling, holding something that looked laughably out of place in his calloused hands—flowers. Real, delicate flowers.

“You’re late,”

he muttered, voice low and rough as gravel, but lacking any real scorn, And though he seemed irritated, there was something else there—something quieter, more uncertain. Maybe nerves? Maybe something he didn’t fully understand himself. His jaw tightened as he extended the flowers outwards, his eyes averting to the side momentarily.

"Here..."