Page 92 of Brutal Unionn
I listen to his footsteps retreat—steady, well placed, each one sounding like a rejection. The bathroom door slides shut with a distinct snap, and a second later, the soft hiss of the shower begins. Steam curls out beneath the door, thick with the scent of cedar soap and warming skin.
Minutes stretch.
Then an hour.
Then more.
Time becomes meaningless. The ache in my knees grows sharp, then dull. My thighs tremble, blood throbbing in my temples. My arms begin to go numb, but I don’t shift. I don’t drink. I don’t rise.
This is what remorse looks like. This is whatlovelooks like—when you know you were wrong, and you’re willing to bleed for it.
Eventually, the shower cuts off. The water stops. The paper thin wall slides open.I hear the soft pad of his bare feet as he moves past me—still damp, still silent—and disappears into the next room. Drawers open. Fabric rustles. A zipper. The muted tug of cotton over skin. Then the shift of air as he leaves again.
A moment later, faint kitchen sounds reach me. The gentle splash of water into a kettle. The soft rattle of a lid.
A quiet bubbling follows, then the earthy scent of miso rises into the air—warm, savory, grounding. Seaweed and green onion follow, delicate but clear.
My knees shake with need and strain. I want to cry from the pain of the fight and the yawn of my muscles. Thekettle whistles, high and sharp, before he silences it with a flick. The crisp bitterness of steeping green tea cuts through the air, and then, silence again—until I hear him return.
He doesn’t say a word when he reaches me. But I feel his presence like a shadow settling over me—heavy and sharp.
Then: theclinkof ceramic on wood. A cup and bowl placed on the floor beside me.
“You know,” he says dryly, voice laced with mocking exhaustion, “you’ve been doing this dramatic bow bullshit for three hours now.”
He squats beside me, his forearm brushing lightly against mine. I can smell the tea before I see it—green, earthy, clean. Miso soup, too. The scent of seaweed, tofu, a hint of dashi broth.
“I made soup,” he says.
My throat aches, dry and sore, but I don’t move. I keep my forehead to the ground, my body folded in half, my palms pressed flat.
“I’ll stay here,” I rasp. “Until you believe me. Until youfeelhow sorry I am.”
He exhales—short and sharp. A bitter laugh. “You look ridiculous.”
“I don’t care,” I whisper.
“What, you’re just gonna starve to death on my floor?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
The floor creaks beneath his weight, and I hear the shift—his body turning toward me again.
“Fuck,Hime,” he growls into the air. “You won’t even allow me to be mad at you.”
I remain still, unsure if he’s angry or undone. Maybe both.
Then, slowly—almost reluctantly—I feel his fingers against my shoulder. This time, there’s no force. Just heat, and the slow trail of his fingertips against my body.
“You’re forgiven,” he says, voice gruff. “Alright? There. You got it.”
I stay down a moment longer, as if waiting for the ground to confirm his words. Then, finally, I lift my head. My eyes are red, swollen, stinging from both emotion and hours of holding this pose, but I look up at him through strands of disheveled hair.
He doesn’t look at me with softness. He looks at me like someone still bleeding, and moves a couple of strands from off of my forehead. He is barefoot, dressed in nothing but some linen pants.
Sho reaches for the bowl, scoops a spoonful of soup, and lifts it to my lips. “Eat.”
I blink at him. “You cooked this?”
