Some were half-submerged and struggling.
Others leaped toward the blossoms above, fighting against impossible currents, trying to reach something beautiful that was already being torn apart.
The entire piece flowed together like a tragic story told in ink. Cherry blossoms—beauty and life—being destroyed. The great wave—overwhelming force, drowning everything in its path. The koi fish—fighting, struggling upward, even as everything falls apart around them.
This wasn't just art.
This was pain made visible.
Trauma made permanent.
And somehow, even possibly drunk, even passed out at a kitchen table reeking of sake, Hiro was one of the most striking men I'd ever seen. His face—what I could see of it beneath the dark hair—had the kind of sharp, elegant bone structure that belonged in photographs.
High cheekbones.
A strong jaw.
Lips that were full and soft even in unconsciousness.
The defined muscles of his arms pillowed his head, and I could see the strength in them—the kind of power that came from endless training, from being one of Kenji's most trusted Claws.
I stepped closer.
This didn’t seem like peaceful sleep.
His breathing was uneven, catching every few seconds like even unconsciousness wouldn't let him rest. His muscular shoulders rose and fell in stuttering rhythms, and I could see the tension even now—in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands were curled into loose fists, in the rigid line of his spine.
This was a man barely holding on.
The tattoos suddenly made even more sense. The blossoms being torn apart. The people drowning in the wave. The koi still fighting even though everything was falling apart.
My writer brain started jotting invisible interview questions.
What happened? Are the tattoos about your marking yourself with struggles you couldn't escape? Is the sake the only thing keeping you from drowning too?
My chest tightened.
Why wasn't he in his bedroom?
Why was he down here, passed out at the kitchen table like sleep was something he had to steal between swallows of alcohol?
I thought about the way he'd smiled in the war room and made all those jokes against Kenji’s Maybe-Baby Mama.
I thought about the lollipop in his mouth then and wondered. . .was that a small sign of him trying to cope with trauma.
Sugar to make the pain go down better.
Regardless. . .this was a man barely holding on.
I clutched my phone and notebook to my chest and moved carefully toward the counter where the kettle waited. I'd have to pass close to him and be very quiet, so I didn’t wake him.
I took a step.
Then another.
Almost past him now.
I would make my tea quickly and slip out quietly.
