The light is soft when my eyes open, golden and diffused through the shōji. For a moment, I lie still, listening. The house is quiet—so quiet I can hear my own breath, the faint hum of cicadas outside, the rustle of the leaves as the morning wind moves through the woods.
I turn my head.
The pillow beside me is untouched. Empty.
No Hara.
A familiar ache twists inside me, but it isn’t sharp. Not anymore. It’s the kind of ache that comes with understanding. We hadn’t rushed last night. We hadn’t needed to. Our words weren’t spoken so much as confessed, halting and raw, and our hands had done the rest. His in mine, steady, grounding. Mine in his, trembling, finally free of all the walls I had built against myself.
We didn’t promise each other forever. Not yet. What we promised was time—time to let old wounds breathe, to let scars stop bleeding. Still, we both knew it, even without saying it. Life without each other wasn’t life at all.
I slip from the bed, careful with my steps across the tatami. The air is cool on my skin as I slide the door open and step into the hall. The house smells faintly of cedar and dust and earth—the scent of this kominka has always been comfort.
And there he is.
Hara lies on the sofa, his body loose, chest rising and falling in that steady rhythm I know better than my own. For a moment, all I can do is stand there, staring. The sight of him pulls something warm into my chest, a smile before I even realize it’s there. He looks like he belongs here, like he always has. He was a fixture in my life the moment he arrived in Tokyo. Now, lying in this house, in this morning light—he completes it. He completes me.
I stay there longer than I should, drinking in the quiet of it, the small mercy of this moment.
When I finally move to step past, his hand reaches out. Not fumbling, not searching—just reaching. Certain. As though he has always known exactly where I would be. His fingers brush my wrist and his eyes open.
That look—sharp and soft all at once—locks me in place.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to. The silence between us is thick with the language only we know. It’s in his eyes, in mine. Forgiveness. Fear. Need. Everything that matters.
I let the smile tug my lips sharper this time, let my voice carry the weight of what I cannot say outright.
“Up now, Toad… we have much training to do.”
The sound of my own words surprises me—they slip out smooth and playful, like honey sliding down the comb. It’s been so long since I’ve spoken to him like this. I can feel the old warmth in my tone, and by the look in his eyes, I know he hears it too.
But beneath it all, my heart still aches. I want nothing more than to give in, to let this feeling swallow me whole. Yet I can’t. I won’t.
Because the world hasn’t stopped turning just because we’ve found our way back to each other. The Yakuza still moves in the shadows. Ultimate Wrestling is still at war. Cassie and Colton may have struck their blow against the Russians, but that threat still coils, waiting. And Rupert Mudcock—he doesn’t care about us, about what we’ve built, or what we’ve nearly lost. To him, we are nothing but thorns in his side—made sharper by every truth I’ve uncovered, every demand the Hurst family has pressed, every chaos the Ronin Rumble left in its wake.
A domino line, one that has led me to this morning. To this man. To this vow.
I won’t let them take this from me again.
Not the Yakuza.
Not the Russians.
Not Rupert.
Not anyone.
I look down at him, his hand still on my wrist, his eyes still on me, and I know—he feels it too.
This time, we fight with more than fists. We fight for us.
His hand lingers on my wrist a second longer than it should. I feel the warmth of his touch trailing my skin even as he lets go, and I pull myself away before my body can betray me.
I step toward the courtyard, the old boards creaking softly beneath my feet. The air is still cool, clinging with dew, the kind of morning that demands movement, sweat, and focus. The kind of morning where hesitation is weakness.
Behind me, I hear the familiar groan of him rising from the sofa. I don’t need to look—I can feel him, the weight of his presence moving with purpose even half-asleep. Hara has always been like that. Even in weariness, his instincts burn. He will always answer when called.
The shōji slides shut behind us as we step onto the gravel path between the kominka and the dojo. The stone beneath my soles is cold, grounding. The cherry blossoms arching overhead are silent now, their blooms long gone, but their branches still hold memory. This place has always been sacred to us. A battlefield, a sanctuary, a crucible.
I take my place at the center of the courtyard, laying the old blanket aside. The pond glimmers at the corner of my vision, frogs scattering into its surface with the ripples of our presence. I drop into a stance—feet planted, spine aligned, shoulders square. My body remembers before my mind does.
“Breathe,” I murmur to myself, a command as much as a ritual.
I hear his feet settle behind me, then beside me. He mirrors me without question. He always has. That’s the rhythm of us: not needing to speak, only to move.
The first kata begins slow—controlled breaths, precise motions, the art of stripping the noise from your mind until only the body speaks. My hands carve the air in steady arcs, fists closing, opening, striking, flowing. I feel him there, every strike an echo of mine, his energy colliding with mine, blending with it until we are two shadows moving as one.
The silence is broken only by the rhythm of our breathing, the scuff of soles on stone, the crisp crack of fists cutting through morning air.
I steal a glance at him as our movements fall into a sharper tempo. His jaw is tight, his eyes alive with the focus I remember. For months, that fire was buried, smothered under bitterness and distance. Now it burns again, and for a moment, I almost forget to move—lost in the reminder of what we once were.
But I can’t forget. Not now.
I push harder, faster. My strikes land with sharp cracks against the phantom of an opponent only I can see. He follows, his body answering mine, matching me blow for blow. This is where we’ve always been strongest—not in words, not in promises—but in the fight.
My lungs burn, my muscles scream, but I welcome it. Pain sharpens me. Reminds me why we’re here. Reminds me that the Yakuza won’t wait. That the Russians won’t stop. That Rupert won’t quit until we’re broken.
But I won’t let them. Not again.
I pivot, stepping into a spinning kick, the heel of my foot slicing through the morning air. He ducks beneath it with practiced instinct, his counter coming fast—a palm strike that stops an inch from my chest. His breath hitches. Mine holds.
For a second, we freeze..his eyes locked on mine, the echo of what almost was between us hanging in the air like a held breath.
Then I smile. Not wide. Just enough to cut through the tension.
“Better,” I whisper. “But not good enough.”
His smirk is faint, but it’s there—the smirk I thought I’d lost forever.
And then we begin again.
The first thing I feel is the quiet.
Not silence—not truly—but the kind of quiet that seeps into your bones, as though the world itself is holding its breath. My eyes are still closed, but I can hear everything. The cicadas beyond the walls. The wind threading its fingers through the trees. Even the faint creak of this old kominka, shifting under the weight of time. It is the sound of home, and yet not home—because home is not just walls or roof beams. It is presence. It is the warmth of someone who fills the spaces between breaths.
It is her.
My body stirs before my mind does, muscles shifting against the worn sofa cushions where I’d collapsed hours before dawn. I hadn’t meant to sleep here. I had meant to rise early, to train, to remind myself that discipline is the rope that keeps me from unraveling. But when the storm inside me eased—when her hands quieted the violence that has so long been my companion—I had let myself rest. For the first time in longer than I can measure, I allowed sleep to claim me without fear of what dreams might bring.
And yet… the pillow upstairs was empty when she turned to it. I had chosen this place instead. Not because I didn’t want her near, but because I am still afraid of how much I do.
The ache is not unfamiliar. Love and fear often share the same blade.
I shift slightly, breath catching at the sound of feet upon tatami. Light steps, deliberate, respectful of the hour. I know them before I see them. Her rhythm is etched into me—years of watching her move, of listening to her draw near or draw away. My body answers before thought can intervene. My hand reaches outward—not groping, not uncertain, but sure. Always sure, when it comes to her. My fingers brush her wrist, and the moment my skin touches hers, I know: I am exactly where I should be.
I open my eyes.
She is there, framed in morning’s pale gold, the lines of her face softened but unhidden. I see the hesitation she carries like armor, the war she still wages inside herself. But beneath it, I see the truth she tries to bury—that she feels the same pull I do. That no battlefield, no oath, no wound will ever sever this tether between us.
Her smile comes slow, tentative, but when it does, it is enough to shake me. For all the scars, for all the years of fighting shadows and enemies both within and without, she still smiles at me. That is a victory greater than any I’ve ever won.
Her words follow, light and sharp, teasing in a way I haven’t heard from her in far too long:
“Up now, Toad… we have much training to do.”
The sound of it cuts through me like sunlight breaking storm clouds. She doesn’t know what it does to me, to hear her speak to me like that again—unburdened, unguarded, almost playful. It feels like the world has tilted back into place, if only for a heartbeat.
I want to hold onto it. I want to surrender to it. But I can’t. Not fully.
Because the world is still what it is. The Yakuza do not sleep. The Russians still wait to strike. Rupert Mudcock still pulls his strings, greedy and relentless. And the Hursts… my brothers, my sisters… their battles tangle with ours, drawing us deeper into the storm.
She knows this. I see it in her eyes as clearly as I feel it in my own chest. That is why we do not speak of forever, not yet. Forever is a promise made by those who believe they have time. For us, time is a battlefield. What we promise each other instead is presence. To stand, to fight, to breathe in the same rhythm—until the world tears it from us.
Her wrist slips from my hand, though the warmth of her lingers. She moves toward the courtyard, and I follow, because I always will. My body groans in protest, the weight of unrested nights dragging at my bones, but discipline drives me forward.
The boards creak as she steps onto the path. I hear them sigh under her weight, and I think of how many times I have heard that sound before—training alone, training with her, standing watch in the nights when neither of us trusted the dark. The kominka has been sanctuary, battlefield, and prison all at once. Today, it will be crucible again.
The shōji slides shut behind us, and the morning greets us with its cool breath. The gravel crunches beneath our feet. The pond stirs with frogs leaping at our presence. The cherry branches arch above, stripped of bloom yet still commanding reverence. Every piece of this place hums with memory.
She moves to the center of the courtyard, discarding the blanket with a grace even in such a small act. My gaze lingers on her a moment longer than it should, drawn not to her beauty—though it is there, undeniable—but to the fire that always smolders beneath it. That fire has saved me. That fire has nearly burned me. That fire is why I will never turn away.
Her body falls into stance, precise, disciplined, each line carved into her muscle by years of devotion. I follow without hesitation. My place has always been at her side—whether in training, in battle, or in the silence that stretches between both.
The kata begins. Slow. Measured. Breath in, breath out. The air cuts against my skin as my hands carve through it, fists opening and closing in rhythm. Every strike is a release. Every breath, a purge. And beside me, she moves as though our bodies are tethered by invisible thread.
We do not speak. We do not need to. Our language has always been movement.
Strike. Step. Pivot. Breath.
Her energy collides with mine, blends with mine, until I cannot tell where I end and she begins. This is what it has always been between us: two shadows moving as one, born from different fires but burning toward the same horizon.
I steal a glance at her. Her eyes are fierce again, alive in a way I feared I would never see. For months, that light dimmed, hidden beneath doubt, beneath distance. To see it return now threatens to unmake me. I falter for only a breath, lost in the sight of what I thought I had lost.
But she does not falter. She pushes harder. Faster. And I follow, as I always do.
The strikes crack against the air, the sound echoing against the kominka walls like a drumbeat. My lungs sear, muscles straining, but I welcome the pain. Pain reminds me I am alive. Pain reminds me why I fight.
Her kick comes sharp, slicing through the air, and my body reacts before thought—ducking low, sliding inside the arc. My palm thrusts forward, stopping just shy of her chest. A counter. A warning. A promise.
For a moment, we freeze there—locked in place, eyes meeting, breaths tangled. The world shrinks to the inch of space between us, to the tension that hums louder than any war outside these walls.
I see her hesitate. I feel my own pulse betray me.
Then she smiles. Not wide, not mocking. Just enough to shatter the tension into something softer.
“Better,” she whispers. “But not good enough.”
Her words sting, but they heal in the same breath. Because it means she still sees me. She still challenges me. She still believes I can be more than I am.
And for that, I will fight the world.
I smirk—small, restrained, but real. The kind of smirk that once came so easily, before the weight of war and blood dulled me.
Then I move again. And she follows.
Because this is who we are. Not promises. Not vows. Not even forgiveness.
We are the fight.
And together, we are unstoppable.
The kata slows, then shifts. Strike. Step. Pivot. Our rhythm has always been a weapon, but today it is something more—a tether, pulling us deeper into the space where training ends and battle begins.
The morning air is thin now, each breath harder to drag into my lungs. Sweat slicks my skin, beads tracing down my temple, across my jaw, dripping onto the stone path beneath me. My fists ache from repetition, but I don’t stop. I won’t. Because beside me—no, with me—Hara keeps pace. Always.
And then—
Ping.
The sound cuts through our tempo. Sharp. Out of place.
We both freeze, bodies coiled mid-strike, chests rising and falling in jagged unison. Our eyes snap toward the sound—his gaze sharp, mine sharper. A phone rests on a faded cushion near the veranda, screen glowing with a message that does not belong here, not in this moment.
I move first. My steps are deliberate, each one echoing in the hollow between us. The phone is warm in my palm. A glance, and the words carve themselves into me:
_[ Hey, I thought you may want to know, that Hara could be making it back to Tokyo, Colton and I had a brief consultation with Rupert, I think he teamed you two up again in a match. Not sure if you are ready, but this is my way to make things right. I'm on my way back home. Good luck! I hope you two work things out. Love you! Check details in Email. Hara doesn't know. _
Cassie.]
Her name tastes like iron on my tongue, memory flooding sharp as a blade—betrayal and forgiveness, loss and sacrifice. But I do not let the storm show. Not now.
I set the phone back where it was. My hand lingers for a breath, then I turn.
Hara is still standing where I left him, shoulders heaving, eyes locked on me. Searching. Always searching.
I let the smallest smile curl my lips. Not kind. Not cruel. Devious. The kind of smile he knows well—the kind that means I am about to test him.
I step back into the courtyard. Raise my hands. Sink into stance.
He mirrors me, wariness flickering behind his eyes. He doesn’t know what’s coming. Good.
I move first. A sudden advance, sharper, faster—my palm strike slicing toward his chest. He blocks, but the impact rattles his guard. He’s not expecting aggression. He should have.
Another strike, low kick snapping toward his thigh. He pivots, catching the arc with his shin, teeth gritted. Our eyes lock—his surprise plain, my challenge unmistakable.
This isn’t kata anymore. This is us.
I chain the next sequence without pause: elbow, feint, backfist. He ducks, counters with a sweep. My heel leaves the stone for half a breath, but I catch myself, twisting midair to land in stance again. A thrill runs through me, one I won’t admit aloud. This is how we’ve always spoken best—through impact, through motion, through the razor-thin space between victory and defeat.
The courtyard fills with the sound of us—shouts of breath, the crack of fists against guard, the scrape of soles on stone. And with every strike, every counter, we draw closer.
Too close.
My forearm collides with his. The vibration travels up my bones, into my chest. His hand seizes my wrist, twisting—but not hard enough to hurt. Never that. I spin out, breaking free, but not before I feel the heat of his grip linger on my skin.
Again.
He lunges, body pressing into mine as he drives me back a step. My shoulder brushes his chest, close enough to hear the pound of his heartbeat. My knee comes up, controlled, a whisper away from his ribs. He blocks, shoves, but doesn’t release me. For one suspended moment, we are locked there—breath tangled, strength against strength, the temptation to lean instead of resist almost unbearable.
I tear free. Because I must.
Because if I don’t, the fight shifts into something we cannot take back.
But even as I spin away, I slip into a familiar pattern—Tag drills. The rhythm we once mastered together. I launch into the opening combo, sharp and precise. He recognizes it. I see it in his eyes—the flicker of memory, of trust.
He answers. Not just reacting, but anticipating. His strikes flow into mine, defenses folding into attacks, our bodies weaving through the old choreography of survival. A sequence built for two, not one. Built for us.
My chest burns. My limbs tremble. But with every beat, I feel the rhythm return. Timing. Precision. Perception. Discipline.
Each time our bodies brush—arm against arm, shoulder grazing chest, breath grazing skin—it becomes harder to remember why we cannot surrender. Why we cannot simply let go.
But I do not let it consume me.
Discipline is all I know. It is all that has ever kept me alive. And it is what will rebuild us now—not as lovers, not yet—but as the team we were always meant to be.
I press forward harder. Strike. Grapple. Break. Pivot. Every move a test, every breath a demand: Follow me. Match me. Be who you were, who we were, again.
And when his body moves in perfect rhythm with mine, when the space between us becomes seamless, I feel it.
The world beyond the kominka still burns with enemies and wars. But here, in this moment, we are unbroken.
And together, unstoppable.
Her pace changes.
I know it before I think it, before my body even reacts. Kata is rhythm, discipline, a breathing prayer carved into movement. But this—this is sharper. Heavier. A blade drawn in place of a wooden practice sword.
She strikes, palm aimed at my chest, and though I block, the force rattles down my guard. Her next kick comes fast, too fast f