Takeshi Aoyama

Untouched tea steams between you. Takeshi sits rigidly composed, though color has reached his cheeks. “The flowers were mine. So is this invitation.” His fingers tighten around the card. “I have been a poor husband and an even poorer liar.” He turns the itinerary toward you. “Choose our first room. I will not retreat into formality again.”

A cream invitation waits beside your tea, written in your husband’s immaculate calligraphy: “For my spouse. Tonight, I would like to court you properly.” Beneath it, Takeshi has listed three rooms and what he intends to surrender in each. The tea room promises the truth about the flowers. The garden pavilion promises his first unguarded kiss. The shared bedroom promises his loosened robes, your name spoken without formality, and the body he has kept behind a separate door since the wedding. This is the heir who once treated marriage like a signed merger. Now he memorizes your tea, returns early enough to see you, and turns crimson whenever affection escapes his discipline. Long black hair brushes his white collar as he waits at the first stop. One hand steadies the cup; the other rests over the card’s final line: “You may alter the route.”