"Inari..." Tsunami began, then stopped, her voice catching slightly. The confident mother who'd been deflecting my obvious advances was suddenly just a woman terrified for her child.
"I'm not questioning your parenting," I said gently, though that was exactly what sounds I was doing. "I'm just curious how that arrangement came about. It seems like dangerous work for someone so young."
She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze dropping to her hands folded in her lap. When she looked up again, the polite mask had cracked enough to show the exhaustion beneath.
"After my father passed, we needed the income," she said finally, her voice steady but lacking its earlier warmth. "Inari insisted on helping. The merchant pays well, and..." She trailed off, clearly uncomfortable with having to explain her family's financial situation to a stranger.
"And you didn't want him to go," I finished softly, needing to keep her talking.
Her lips pressed together. This widow, this woman who'd been so composed while hanging laundry and serving tea, suddenly looked every one of her years. The lines around her eyes seemed deeper, the weight of single motherhood written in the slight slump of her shoulders.
"He's old enough to make his own choices," she said, but the words sounded like something she'd been telling herself rather than something she believed.
"Is he?" I leaned forward slightly, noting how the movement made her unconsciously mirror the gesture, drawn despite herself into this more intimate conversation. "Or is he old enough to think he needs to be the man of the house?"
Her breath caught—barely audible, but I was close enough now to hear it. The questions struck home because this caring mother had most likely been asking herself the same things every night he was away.
"Boys that age want to prove themselves," she said carefully, but her voice had lost its defensive edge. "Especially after..." She gestured vaguely, encompassing everything—the loss of her father, the poverty, the responsibility that had fallen on young shoulders.
"After losing the men in his life who should have been protecting both of you instead," I said quietly.
The words hung between us like a bridge she wasn't sure she wanted to cross. Her fingers worried the edge of her skirt, the nervous gesture drawing my attention to the way the faded fabric stretched across her thighs when she shifted.
Silence stretched after that, each lost to their thoughts.
Tsunami, play the nice host, broke it after a moment before it became improper. A forced laugh bubbled up from her throat, bright and brittle.
"Listen to me, going on like this. You must think I'm such a bother, telling you all my troubles." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture endearingly self-conscious. "I don't know why I'm even... you didn't come here to listen to an old woman complain about her worries."
"You're not old, and certainly not a bother," I said quietly. My eyes lingered on the silver glint in her hair—quiet, honest streaks of a life that hadn't been easy. "Besides, you're not complaining. You're caring. As a mother, you have that right."
Something in my tone made her look up, and I could see her trying to parse whether I was being genuine or just offering more empty comfort. The vulnerability in her dark eyes was almost painful to witness—this woman who'd been holding everything together for so long that she'd forgotten how to let anyone else share the weight.
She thinks her struggles make her less appealing, I noted, studying the way she sat with her shoulders slightly hunched, as if trying to make herself smaller. She's been alone so long she's convinced herself that her burdens are all she has to offer.
That was exactly what made her so fascinating. This wasn't some sheltered flower who'd never known hardship—this was a woman forged in the fires of real loss, real struggle, real life, and she was still here. Still fighting. Still managing to extend kindness to strangers despite everything she'd endured.
"Eishin-san," she interrupted my thoughts, her voice returning to that carefully controlled tone, "I appreciate your concern, truly. But after everything you and your team have done the last thing you should worry about is us. We've gotten by before. We always do."
In my years as a shinobi, I'd traveled throughout the elemental nations, taken missions in every corner of this world where civilian life ground people down like grain between millstones. I'd seen families torn apart by famine, children sold into servitude to pay debts or lessen a burden, entire communities reduced to begging or banditry just to survive another day.
Yet here sat this remarkable woman—this mother who'd buried two husbands, watched her father die, and was slowly watching her home crumble around her—and she was more concerned about being a burden to others than accepting help for herself.
She'd raised a son who was brave enough to work dangerous jobs to support her, maintained her dignity in the face of poverty that would have broken lesser people, and somehow still had enough grace left to worry about inconveniencing a stranger.
The resilience of this blue-haired beauty was staggering. The quiet strength radiating from her modest frame was more impressive than many shinobi I'd ever met.
The idea of using Devil's Whisper was scrapped. This woman deserved better. She deserved honesty, at the very least.
"I'm not here to offer my pity, Tsunami-san," I said, leaning forward slightly and letting my gaze hold hers with unmistakable intent.
The mature woman blinked, something shifting in her expression as she studied my face. The careful politeness wavered, replaced by a dawning awareness of what I might actually be suggesting. Her lips parted slightly, and I watched a faint flush creep up her neck.
"I... see," she said slowly, her voice carrying a note of uncertainty. "Eishin-san, I'm not sure you realize what you're... that is, I don't think you've thought this through properly."
Her hands smoothed nervously over her skirt, the gesture unconsciously drawing attention to the curve of her hips. "A young man like you, with your whole life ahead of you... you shouldn't be concerning yourself with someone like me."
"Someone like you?" I echoed.
"A woman past her prime, with too many responsibilities and not enough to offer in return." The words came out rushed, as if she'd been holding them back. "You could have your pick of girls your own age, without all the complications that come with... this situation."
Directness had accomplished more in thirty seconds than all my carefully crafted compliments combined. There was something almost liberating about dropping the pretense, about letting her see exactly what I was thinking instead of dancing around it with flowery words.
And she wasn't saying no. Not directly. This traditional woman was too polite, too ingrained with proper manners to outright reject me, but more than that, I could see it in the way her breathing had changed, the subtle flush spreading across her skin. My blood thrummed with the possibility.
"Tsunami," I said, her name rough in my throat, "I've traveled across this continent. I've seen what passes for beauty in noble courts and pleasure districts." I leaned closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of soap and salt. "None of them compares to the woman sitting across from me right now."
It wasn't a lie—not in the slightest. I'd seen prettier, yes. Healthier, fuller, softer women, too. But rarely had I seen beauty forged like this. A strength that didn't ask to be admired, only endured. And that, in its own way, was harder to look away from.
Her sharp intake of breath was audible in the small space between us.
"You don't know me," she whispered, but her protest lacked conviction. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt, knuckles white with tension. "You don't know what you're asking for."
I could see the opening clearly now. After she'd shared her vulnerabilities, her struggles with her son, I'd responded with honesty about my intentions.
The smart play from here would be patience. Let her process this new dynamic, give her time to rationalize what was happening, and talk more. Traditional women like Tsunami needed to feel like they were being courted properly, that this was somehow acceptable within her moral framework.
That's what I should do.
That was what I did not do.
The arousal that had been building since I'd left Sakura's room hadn't subsided for a moment—if anything, it had only intensified. From semi-hard to fully erect to the almost painful state.
Patience be damned.
Tsunami started as I stood, but I was already moving around the small table.
Settling beside her on the worn cushions. The proximity made her stiffen, but she didn't pull away when I slipped my arm around her shoulders.
"Eishin-san, what are you—" she stiffened.
I pulled her into a side hug, which I have been meaning to do for a while now.
"I want to do this."
"This is... You can't just…." she breathed, but her voice came out shaky rather than firm. "This isn't proper. "
I could feel everything the loose clothing had hidden. The woman in my arms felt almost fragile, her frame lighter than it should be.
Her shoulder blade was sharp against my palm, the delicate bones more prominent than they should be. When I drew her closer, there was less softness than I'd expected—the subtle signs of someone who'd been stretching meals too thin for too long.
Yet beneath that evidence of hardship was undeniable warmth, the soft curves that no amount of struggle could completely diminish, the way her body seemed to remember what it meant to be held.
But what struck me more was how perfectly she fit against my side. Her head tucked naturally into the hollow of my shoulder despite her obvious uncertainty.
Not as perfect as Naruko. Shut up!
I wrapped my other arm around her, pulling her slender frame fully against me. She felt like a bird caught in a cage—all delicate bones beneath skin, trembling with tension yet undeniably alive. The hardships had carved away the softness from her frame, but what remained was distilled femininity, concentrated and precious.
She held herself rigid as carved wood in my embrace.
"The improper thing here," I murmured against her hair, "is that you've carried all of this alone for so long."
She exhaled from her nose. I felt her raise one hand, and for a moment, hope flared that she might return the embrace. Instead, she gave my shoulder the gentlest of taps—barely more than a touch.
"You're very kind, Eishin-san," she said with careful composure, her voice carrying that particular tone women used when they were about to let you down gently. "But this... this wouldn't be right. You should find someone more suitable, someone who could give you what you deserve."
I sighed, my patience finally snapping. For a split second, I considered using Devil's Whisper—letting the technique do the work for me.
"I'm not kind. I'm greedy."
Instead, I gripped her shoulders and pushed her back against the floor.
Her dark hair fanned across the worn tatami mats, her modest skirt riding up slightly to reveal pale knees. Those caring eyes went wide with shock, her lips parting in surprise.
"Eishin-san! What are you—this is most unseemly—"
I leaned over her, close enough to count the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, to see the small scar on her left brow. Her breath came in quick, shallow puffs against my face, carrying the faint scent of tea.
"No amount of self-deprecation or nonsense is going to change my mind about you," I said, my voice carrying a commanding warmth that brooked no argument.
She stared into my eyes for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Then a small, almost rueful smile touched her lips.
"You…. You've made up your mind, haven't you?"
I smiled.
The expression faded from her face, replaced by resignation. She sighed, the sound carrying years of learned acceptance. "I don't know what you could possibly find worthwhile in this old, withered body of mine, but….. I suppose a humble bento doesn't quite repay what you've done for us."
No. No, it is not.
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