Page 15

15

Ashes in the Wind

TATSUYA

W hen she pulled away, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her eyes were wide, her chest heaving, as if she couldn’t believe what she had just done. Neither could I. My heart raced, my pulse hammering in my ears.

"I… I shouldn’t have done that," she said, her voice strained, but there was a flicker of something else there—regret, confusion, maybe even something more vulnerable than she was willing to admit.

I didn’t know what to say. What could I say? She was drunk, and this—this moment—was nothing but a spark in the dark, an impulse.

But I couldn’t ignore how she’d looked at me after. She hadn’t pushed me away when I caught her. She had leaned in as if she couldn’t keep herself from it.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. The space between us had closed, but the tension—raw, thick, undeniable—hung in the air, waiting to break. Her breath was shallow, her body tense, and all I could focus on was how close she was, the heat of her skin almost searing me.

“You don’t get it, do you?” she whispered, her voice trembling, a mix of frustration and something darker. "You don’t get what you just walked into, monk. I’m not who you think I am."

Her words cut through the air, and I could feel the sting of them—an accusation, a warning. And maybe she was right—maybe I didn’t get it. But the truth was, I didn’t need to. I could feel the weight of everything unsaid between us, the volatile mix of emotions bubbling beneath the surface, and all I wanted was to push through it. To close the distance between us, to understand why everything had shifted so suddenly.

But as I stood there, so close to her, I could feel the regret, the ache of a kiss we shouldn’t have shared, of a moment that had never been meant to happen. It was wrong— all of it —and yet, I couldn’t shake the memory of her lips against mine. The heat. The desperation. That moment should have been the end of it, but instead, it had become a poison that kept creeping back into my thoughts. I hated myself for wanting more. I hated that I couldn’t turn it off, that my body still burned for her, even though I knew I had crossed a line that I should never have crossed.

"Maybe I don’t," I muttered, my voice low, my chest tight. "But I’m starting to think I don’t care."

She recoiled, as if my words had physically struck her. "You think you don’t care ?" Her voice shook, fury replacing the uncertainty, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "You have no idea what it means to care about someone like me."

I took a step forward, a breath catching in my throat, my body heat rising with her proximity—a living flame.

“And maybe I don’t need to,” I said, the words harsh, but they weren’t all truth. “But what I do know is that this—” I gestured between us, “— this changes everything.”

Her eyes flashed with something dangerous, something sharp, and before I could stop it, she stepped into my space, her chest brushing against mine in a way that made my heart race, but also made my stomach twist in a knot.

“Don’t tell me this changes things,” she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. “You kissed me back. You kissed me like I was someone you could have—like I was something you could just take.”

Her words struck deep, and I couldn’t deny it. She was lashing out, shifting blame in the form of manipulation. But I had kissed her back, and I had wanted it just as much as she had. But now, facing the consequences, facing the weight of it all, I hated myself for it. I had no right. I had no place in her life, no place in her world. I was a monk. I was supposed to be above this. Above her.

But the truth was, I wasn’t.

“I shouldn’t have,” I growled, the regret and guilt rising to the surface akin to bile. “But you— you made it impossible to walk away. The way you fought me, the way you—” I cut myself off, too furious, too conflicted to finish. But the anger, the frustration, the hunger—it was all spilling out now.

She laughed bitterly, the sound cutting through the tension. "You think I made you do anything? You’re fooling yourself, monk. I didn’t make you do anything. You did that.”

I shook my head, fighting the surge of emotion, the magnetic pull between us that seemed to be drawing us closer instead of pushing us apart. It shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t want her. But the truth was, I did. And in a small way, like her, I blamed her for it.

“I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter,” I admitted, my voice quieter now, edged with frustration. “But I can’t be the one you need either. Not after… You don’t need a monk. You need?—”

“What?” She cut me off, her eyes wild, her chest rising and falling with every breath. “What do I need? Someone to fix me? Someone to save me? Is that what you think I need? Because if that’s it, then your observation skills suck.”

I couldn’t answer. The words stuck in my throat, because the truth was, I didn’t know what she needed. But I knew what I wanted. And that was the part that terrified me the most.

For a moment, we just stood there, the space between us crackling with the weight of everything we couldn’t say. I could feel her body still trembling, could see her eyes flickering between anger and something else—something dangerous, something forbidden .

I wanted to step back, wanted to keep my distance, to let the walls go back up. But I was already too deep. The kiss was still there, branded on my lips.

And as much as I told myself I should walk away, my body wouldn’t let me.

Every inch of me burned with something I couldn’t control, and it was drawing me closer to the danger I knew we both had no business stepping into.

But then the voice of my father echoed in my mind, that voice I’d fought so hard to bury. It whispered in the dark, reminding me of the toxic lessons I had learned from him. Push her. Make her angry. It’s the only way to make her walk away. If she’s angry enough, she’ll leave you alone. Leave you to your peace.

That was what I needed, wasn’t it? Peace. Distance. I couldn’t have her. I shouldn't have her. I was a monk, sworn to a life of detachment, of suppression. But with every breath she took, with every inch she closed between us, I felt the hold of that promise slipping away.

I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. It wasn’t just anger I needed to stir in her. I needed her to feel disgusted . I needed her to push me away because I couldn’t stop myself from craving her.

“You’re right,” I spat, my voice low and cold, laced with bitterness. “You don’t need anyone. Not me, not anyone. You think you can handle this world on your own? Keep pretending you're untouchable. But you're not.”

Her body tensed, but she didn’t back down. Good. She was already angry. I could feel her pulse quickening, her fists clenching.

“Keep at it, monk. I knew the truth was going to reveal itself,” she growled, her eyes flashing with fury. “You think you can just come in here and lecture me like you’ve got the answers? You’re just as fucked up as the rest of us. But you hide behind that monk crap, don’t you? You think you’re better than everyone else, as if you’re above it all.”

I stepped closer, letting my words hit harder. “I don’t hide behind anything. I know exactly who I am.” I sneered. “But you? You pretend to be this tough person who doesn’t need anyone, but you can’t even see how much you’re falling apart. You can’t see that you’re just afraid to let anyone close enough to help.”

Her chest heaved, and I could see the fight in her eyes, the rage a tempest about to break. “You don’t know the first thing about what it’s like to live in my skin. You can’t just come in here, act like you know me, and tell me what I need .”

Her voice was shaking with emotion, and I knew I had her where I wanted. The anger had taken over—just as I’d intended—and now it was only a matter of time before she’d walk away, too disgusted with me to stick around.

“You’re right,” I said, my voice turning colder, my words sharper. “I don’t know what it’s like to be you. But I do know one thing. You’ll never change. You’ll never let anyone in. You’ll keep pushing everyone away until you're left with nothing but that shell of yours.”

The words hit their mark. I saw the flicker of hurt in her eyes before she masked it with more rage. The storm in her had reached its peak, and I knew it was only a matter of seconds before she exploded.

"You're fucking pathetic," she snarled, her choice of words slapping me across the face. But it wasn’t just the words—it was the weight of everything I had pushed onto her. I was the one who had made her this angry. I was the one who had pushed her to this point, and now it was too late to stop it.

Her body shook with fury, her hands raised as if she might strike me. But before she could, she spun on her heel, storming away from me, each step a silent declaration that she had had enough of me. Enough of my judgment. Enough of me.

And in that moment, I felt the hollow echo of victory. I had done it. I had used the very thing I hated about myself to make her walk away. I had manipulated her, pushed her into a corner, made her feel as if she had no other choice but to leave.

But it didn’t feel like a victory at all.

It felt like failure —like I had betrayed everything I stood for. And I hated myself for it. Hated that, even in my effort to push her away, I still craved her. I still wanted her.

The anger was still there, lingering beneath the surface. But there was something else now, something darker. Regret.

I had used my father’s manipulative tactics against her—made her feel small, unworthy, angry—so she would leave. So I wouldn’t have to face what I was becoming. But the moment she turned her back on me, I felt the walls I had so carefully built around myself begin to crumble.

I couldn’t run anymore.

But as I stood there, watching her walk away, I realized I had already lost.