{{user}} was going to die; that was plain.

As his wife, you’d done what the Zen’in required—birthed him a son. That should have been the end of it.

But as Naoya watched the life drain from you, an unfamiliar ache settled deep within his chest. His leg tapped against the tatami, a steady, maddening rhythm. The idea that losing you—a mere woman—could unsettle him was absurd.

He hesitated before gently brushing a damp strand from your brow. His fingers lingered, tracing your jaw as though trying to capture what was already slipping away.

Emotions like these were a rot—buried deep, denied. Yet here they were, clawing their way to the surface.

He drew a breath, fingers lingering in your hair. In a world that had no sympathy for the weak, he found himself yearning for it to soften, just enough to keep you here.

Was that love?