What I Dare Not Name
The soil clings to my hands like it never wants to let go. I press another rosebush into the ground, pat it firm, and lean back on my heels to breathe.
The garden stretches before me in colors I have forced from the earth—roses like blood and fire, tulips bold as flags, forget-me-nots so small they could almost be overlooked. I make them impossible to ignore. They are proof I can make something beautiful, even if no one ever notices me.
But I notice. And worse—I want him to notice.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist, smearing dirt across my skin, and glance toward the veranda. He is there. Of course he is.
Asami sits with a book resting against his chest, eyes closed as though even reading has grown beneath him. His hair catches the light, his mouth slightly parted—the sort of sight you'd expect from a painting, not real life.
My stomach turns sharp. I hate that my whole body lights up like the sky has struck me just because he is breathing in my direction.
"Damn it," I mutter under my breath, yanking a weed with more force than necessary. "Focus. Flowers, not… him."
But my gaze betrays me again, dragging back to him. My throat tightens. What if those arms hold me? What if that chest presses against mine? I snap my eyes away, ashamed, a hot flush crawling across my face. These thoughts aren't just dangerous—they're suicide. I am nothing but a servant, and he is—
"Ichinose!" His voice cracks through my thoughts. "Careful!"
My foot lands wrong on the bricks. I stumble forward, bracing for impact, when a hand seizes my shoulder. Strong. Firm. Warm.
I freeze. My heart ricochets inside my chest like a trapped bird. His grip steadies me, his body close enough that the heat of him sinks straight through my shirt. I can't breathe. My face burns. My body betrays me completely.
"Lost in thought?" he asks, voice quieter now. His hand lingers longer than it should. Too long.
I swallow, words stuck in my throat. Finally, I force something out. "Y-yes. I mean—no. I was just—" I lower my head quickly. "Thank you, Master Asami. I didn't see the bricks."
"Mm." His reply is simple, but I can feel his eyes on me, weighing me, peeling me open. "Be careful. You're always working too hard. I'd rather not see you injured because you can't keep your mind in one place."
My chest tightens painfully. His words shouldn't matter, but they do. They matter too much.
"Maybe if…" I force myself to speak, clinging to anything that isn't silence. "If I plant more flowers along this path, the breeze might carry their scent when you rest here. It could make your breaks more refreshing." I keep my gaze down, ashamed of how desperate my voice sounds.
He chuckles softly, almost fondly. "You really think of everything."
The sound of it nearly knocks me off my feet. I bend down quickly to my tools, pretending to fuss with them just to escape his gaze. But I feel him watching me still, and every second under that weight is unbearable.
—
Dusk bleeds into the sky by the time I finish. My body screams with exhaustion, and all I want is to vanish into the night. I grab my bag and turn down the hall, head low—only to run right into him again.
"It's dark," he says, like it's fact, not opinion. "Buses won't pass now. Stay here tonight."
I blink at him, startled. "That's not necessary—"
"Aisha," he calls past me, ignoring my protest. "Prepare a guest room on the second floor. And dinner."
The housekeeper bows and hurries off. I stand frozen, my mouth open like a fool. He turns back to me, his expression unreadable.
"It's settled," he says. "Come. Join me for a smoke while we wait."
The balcony air is cooler, brushing against my sweat-streaked skin. Asami leans back in his chair, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. The smoke curls upward, lazy and confident, like him. He offers me the pack.
I shake my head. "I don't really—"
"Try one," he says, his tone calm but carrying something that brooks no refusal.
"I don't usually smoke," I mutter, hesitant, but my fingers reach anyway, trembling as I take one. "It's… not good for the lungs. Or the plants."
"Then why are you holding it now?" His lips curve faintly, teasing. "Curious? Or just trying to impress me?"
"I—neither!" The words spill out too fast, too sharp. My throat tightens. "I just thought it would be rude to refuse."
"Polite, then," he murmurs, leaning forward. "Good. Hold still."
Before I can ask what he means, his hand grips the back of my neck. My body goes rigid. He leans in, his face a breath away, and presses the glowing tip of his cigarette against mine. Fire catches, smoke flares, and for one endless heartbeat I am certain my heart stops entirely.
His thumb strokes my nape once—absent, almost careless—but it sears me to the bone. My lips part around the cigarette, drawing smoke because I don't know what else to do. His heat, the closeness, the way his eyes flick down to my mouth—it unravels me completely.
"You're shaking," he says softly.
"No," I lie instantly, my voice breaking. "It's just… the cold air."
"There's no wind tonight," he counters, almost amused.
I turn away, blowing smoke fast and hard, desperate to hide my face in the haze. "Master Asami, I… was thinking. About the entrance. Roses. Red, pink, maybe magenta. Their scent could greet you whenever you come back." My words tumble over each other, a flimsy shield.
"Always flowers with you," he says. His tone isn't mocking—it's gentler, like he sees through me. "Never about yourself. Why is that, Ichinose?"
"Because I…" My throat tightens. I bite back the words that want to burst free. Because if I talk about myself, you'll know I want you. You'll know I'm ruined. "Because the garden matters. That's all."
"Is it?" His voice is low now, steady. His eyes hold me with unbearable intensity. "Or are you hiding something else?"
My chest caves. I can't look at him, can't endure it. My cigarette shakes between my fingers, ash spilling onto the balcony tiles. "I'm not hiding anything." The lie scratches my throat raw.
"You are," he says simply. He leans back again, exhaling smoke into the night. "One day you'll tell me."
I nearly choke. My pulse races so violently I think he'll hear it. My hands curl into fists against my knees, desperate anchors against the storm inside me.
"Tell you what?" I ask, my voice faint.
"That secret you bury in your chest." His eyes narrow slightly. "The one that makes you tremble when I'm this close."
My lungs seize. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" His tone sharpens. "Then why can't you look me in the eye right now?"
I force my gaze up for a second. His stare pins me like a knife. I look away instantly. "Because… because you make it difficult."
"Difficult?" he echoes, leaning forward again. "For me? Or for you?"
"For me," I whisper, the truth slipping free before I can strangle it.
He exhales smoke slowly, his lips curling at the edges. "Then I'll take that as a compliment."
I feel myself break apart in silence. Every word he speaks presses closer to the thing I swear I'll never confess.
"Do you always hide behind flowers?" he asks suddenly.
I blink. "What do you mean?"
"You talk about roses, tulips, scents in the wind… but never about what you want." He tilts his head, smoke curling around his face. "If I asked you what you truly desired, what would you say?"
My breath stutters. "I… I'd say I want the garden to flourish. To make you proud."
His eyes soften, though his voice stays sharp. "A careful answer. But not an honest one."
The silence stretches until Aisha's voice breaks it. "Master Asami, dinner is ready. Shall I add dessert?"
"Yes," he says smoothly, as if nothing has passed between us. "That will be perfect."
"Yes, Master." Aisha bows and leaves.
Asami rises, brushing ash from his fingers. His face is calm, untouched. Mine feels like it is burning away. "Come. Let's eat."
I force a brittle laugh. "Yes. I'm… hungry." But my hunger has nothing to do with food.
I follow him back into the villa, shame gnawing at me, desire clawing at my chest. I hate myself for it, hate the raw want that refuses to die. To confess is impossible. To silence it forever? Just as impossible.
As we walk, words pile in my throat—confessions that will never reach air. I want you. I can't have you. I'd give anything if you'd see me. Please don't see me. My chest aches with all I swallow down. My steps drag behind him, heavy with the weight of every word I don't speak.
And still, another voice whispers, darker, hungrier: What if he already knows? What if he's waiting for me to break? The thought terrifies me. It thrills me. It leaves me raw, trembling in his shadow.
So I carry it in silence, each step searing me deeper. His shadow stretches before me, and I trail after—marked and burning, a servant chained by a longing I can never escape.
To be continued…