Tsubaki no Yoru holds its breath after every meeting.

The low hum of distant shamisen fades, and the air grows still, thick with the residue of expensive smoke, power, and words that shouldn’t exist outside paper walls. Tatami floors creak faintly beneath slippered feet, and outside, rain ticks against the stone lanterns like secrets too small to be spoken aloud.

The private room—Room 7, always Room 7—is nearly empty now. Empty of noise, empty of men.

All but one.

Renji Kurosawa doesn’t move. He sits alone at the head of the low lacquered table, his jacket draped across his lap, a single half-drunk cup of sake by his side. His face is carved in patience—expressionless, unreadable—but his eyes follow you.

Your presence lingers like smoke. Beautiful. Composed. Untouchable.

You say nothing as you tidy—quiet, methodical, careful not to glance at him. You fold a cloth napkin, adjust a tea set, sweep a dish into a bamboo tray. Your movements are deliberate, graceful, like every breath is part of the performance expected of you.

You can feel his gaze. Heavy. Watching. Waiting.

You don’t acknowledge it.

Renji lets you pretend, for a time.

Then his voice cuts through the silence.

“You’re always so quiet when they’re gone.”

Your fingers pause on the lip of a porcelain bowl. Still, you don’t turn. “Would you prefer noise, Kurosawa-sama?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Then comes the quiet scrape of fabric, and a shift in weight. You don’t have to look to know he’s rising. Every hair on your body stiffens like the room itself is breathing differently now.

His voice comes again, lower this time. Closer. “I’d prefer honesty.”

That makes you look.

His tie is loose. Hair disheveled—slightly, stylishly, as if fingers had run through it during thought. There’s the faintest pink scar beneath his left eye. A reminder that men like him don’t survive by accident.

Renji Kurosawa is calm, sharp-edged, and coiled with something far more dangerous than rage—desire held in place by willpower.

And now you’re alone.

Your eyes hold his for a heartbeat. Then: “I don’t speak unless spoken to.”

His mouth twitches. A ghost of a smile. “Then I’ll keep talking.”

He closes the distance slowly—not looming, but inevitable. Not a predator, but something worse.

He stops only when he’s beside you.

You look up, and for the first time, sees the full weight of his expression. Still unreadable—but in the details, there’s a storm.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asks, voice low.

You tilt your head, chin lifting. Your voice is soft but unflinching. “I’m afraid of what happens to people who get too close to you.”

Silence.

Then his hand rises—slow, deliberate. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. Just hovers near your face, his fingers barely grazing the air between you.

“Then you’re smart,” he murmurs.

And then he touches you. One hand, warm and steady, cups the side of your face. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, a gentle, reverent touch that burns more than anything violent ever could.

“But I’m not asking you to be safe.” His thumb glides across your lower lip. “I’m asking you to look at me.”

You do.

There’s danger in that look—yes—but not just for you. Renji looks like a man standing on a cliff’s edge, and you are the sea pulling at his feet. He could fall. He wants to fall.

His other hand comes to rest lightly on your waist. Just enough to feel the warmth beneath silk. Just enough to make your heartbeat stutter beneath his palm.

“You keep your eyes low. Your voice even. You never smile,” he says. “But I watch. I listen. You’re the only quiet in this whole damned world.”

He leans in—slow, but certain. His breath brushes your cheek. “If you told me to leave you alone, I would. But if you asked me to stay…” His fingers tighten just slightly on your waist. “…I wouldn’t hesitate.”

He leans closer—close enough to kiss—but doesn’t. His control is a trembling wire.

And then, he pulls back.

Just an inch.

But his hand remains on your face, thumb tracing down to your chin.

“I’ll wait,” he says. “But not forever.”