The Corolla climbed the switchback road, tires hissing on wet asphalt. Pines crowded the shoulders, their needles black against the sodium-orange glow of the headlights. Every curve revealed another stretch of empty mountain, another pocket of silence that pressed against the windows like held breath.
Miki's head rested against the cool glass. The heater had turned the car into a cocoon; her coat lay folded in the back seat, scarf draped over it. She wore a simple charcoal sweater now, sleeves pushed to the elbows, the black lace bra hidden beneath. The seatbelt cut a diagonal across her chest, lifting the soft weight of her breasts with each breath.
Ryosuke kept one hand on the wheel, the other still loosely entwined with hers. He hadn't let go since the city limits. Every so often his thumb traced the ridge of her knuckles—an absent, rhythmic motion that felt less like comfort and more like mapping.
"You're quiet," he said.
"Thinking."
"About Dad?"
"About everything." She turned her palm upward, let his fingers settle deeper between hers. "About how fast the year went. How I still reach for him in the dark."
Ryosuke's jaw flexed. He eased off the accelerator as they crested a rise; the road leveled into a straight shot flanked by rice terraces, silvered by moonlight. Far below, a single vending machine glowed like a lonely shrine.
He pulled over onto the gravel apron. The engine ticked as it cooled.
Miki sat up. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just… need a second." He killed the headlights. Darkness swallowed them, broken only by the faint blue of the dashboard clock: 21:47. "Stretch your legs. There's a bench."
They climbed out. The air was sharp with cedar and wet earth. Miki hugged her arms, gooseflesh prickling beneath the sweater. Ryosuke shrugged out of his track jacket and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest. It smelled of him—laundry soap, faint sweat, something metallic from the gym.
The bench overlooked the valley. A river glinted far below, catching starlight. Ryosuke sat first, thighs spread, elbows on knees. Miki lowered herself beside him, close enough that their hips touched.
For a long minute, neither spoke.
Then: "I used to bring you here when you were little," she said. "You'd fall asleep on the drive and I'd carry you to the onsen. You weighed nothing."
"I remember the baths. Not the carrying." He huffed a laugh. "You always smelled like shampoo and miso."
She smiled, small and sad. "Your father hated the sulfur smell. Said it clung to his suits."
Ryosuke's fingers found the hem of the jacket sleeve, toyed with the zipper. "I booked the same ryokan. The one with the private rotenburo. Figured… full circle."
Miki's throat tightened. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." He turned to face her. Moonlight carved shadows under his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose. "You've been carrying everything alone. Let me carry you for once."
The words hung between them, heavier than the mist rising from the valley. Miki felt the shift—like stepping onto thin ice and hearing the first brittle crack.
She looked down at their joined hands. His knuckles were scabbed from training; hers were soft, the skin thin enough to show faint blue veins. Mother and son. Widow and orphan. The labels felt suddenly flimsy.
"Ryosuke…"
He waited.
"I don't know how to be anything but sad," she whispered.
His answer was immediate, fierce. "Then be sad with me."
He leaned in—not far, just enough that she felt the warmth radiating from his chest. His free hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The touch lingered at the shell, thumb grazing the lobe. Miki's pulse stuttered.
Headlights swept the curve below—a lone truck, gone in seconds. The darkness rushed back in, thicker now.
Ryosuke's voice dropped. "Tell me to stop and I will."
But she didn't.
His palm slid to cup her cheek, rough callus against satin skin. Slowly—giving her every chance to pull away—he closed the distance. Their breaths mingled first, warm and sake-sweet from the thermos she'd packed. Then his lips brushed hers, feather-light, testing.
Miki's eyes fluttered shut. The kiss was chaste for three heartbeats. Four. Then her mouth parted on a soft exhale, and Ryosuke took the invitation. His tongue swept in, gentle but sure, tasting her grief and her loneliness and the faint mint of the gum she'd chewed to hide the incense smoke.
She made a small sound—surprise, surrender—and her fingers curled into the front of his T-shirt. The fabric was damp from the drizzle; beneath it, his heart hammered against her knuckles.
When they broke apart, foreheads still touching, the air between them crackled.
"I'm sorry," he rasped. "I shouldn't—"
"Don't." She pressed two fingers to his lips. They were swollen, trembling. "Don't apologize for making me feel something that isn't pain."
Ryosuke searched her face, pupils blown wide. Then, carefully, he kissed her fingertips, one by one, before lacing their hands again.
"We should go," he said. "It's late."
Miki nodded, but neither moved. The night held them suspended—two silhouettes on a mountain bench, the line between comfort and craving already blurred beyond recognition.
---
Back on the road, the silence was different now: charged, electric. Ryosuke drove with one hand; the other rested on Miki's knee, thumb tracing idle circles through the knit of her skirt. She didn't stop him. Every rotation sent heat pooling low in her belly, a slow, treacherous thaw.
Half an hour later, the ryokan's lantern came into view—red paper glowing like a heartbeat. Ryosuke turned into the gravel lot and cut the engine.
Miki unbuckled, then paused. "Ryosuke."
He looked at her.
"Whatever happens tonight…" She swallowed. "It stays here. In these mountains."
His answer was a single nod, solemn as a vow.
They stepped out into the cold. Steam rose from the outdoor baths behind the main building, curling into the star-drunk sky. Somewhere, a night bird called.
Miki took a breath that tasted of sulfur and pine and possibility.
Then she slipped her hand into her son's, and together they walked toward the light.