The ryokan's genkan smelled of tatami and roasted barley tea. A single lantern cast honey-colored light over the polished counter. The proprietress, a silver-haired woman in indigo kimono, greeted them with a bow so low her forehead nearly brushed the wood.
"Irasshaimase. Mr. and Mrs. Tanaka?"
Miki's cheeks flamed. Ryosuke's hand tightened around hers—warm, steady—before he answered.
"Just Tanaka," he said smoothly. "Mother and son. The reservation's under Ryosuke."
The woman's eyes flicked to their joined hands, then to Miki's bare ring finger. A flicker of something—amusement? understanding?—crossed her face before she bowed again.
"Of course. Suite Akatsuki, the private rotenburo. This way."
They followed her down a corridor of sliding shōji, paper screens glowing from within. Their footsteps echoed softly. Miki's pulse thudded in her ears, louder than the distant trickle of water.
The proprietress slid open the final door. "Your bath is fed by the source spring. No one else shares it. Dinner at seven, or whenever you ring." She set two wooden bath tokens on the low table, bowed once more, and vanished.
The suite unfolded like a secret: tatami the color of fresh straw, a low kotatsu already warmed, a wall of windows facing the forest. Beyond the glass, the rotenburo steamed gently, ringed by mossy stones and a single maple shedding scarlet leaves into the water. One wide futon lay rolled in the corner—king-sized, pristine white.
Miki's stomach flipped.
Ryosuke dropped their bags by the alcove. "I'll take the floor," he said quickly. "You get the futon."
"Don't be ridiculous. We'll share. Like when you were little and had nightmares." The words came out steadier than she felt.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Okay."
A soft chime—six-thirty. The proprietress's voice drifted through an intercom: "Dinner will be served in your room unless you prefer the dining hall."
"Room, please," Ryosuke called. He glanced at Miki. "Bath first?"
She nodded, throat dry.
---
The rotenburo was smaller than she remembered, but perfect: waist-deep, fed by a bamboo spout that gurgled constantly. Steam rose in fragrant clouds—sulfur, yes, but faint, laced with hinoki from the wooden deck. Lanterns hung from the eaves, casting trembling gold across the water.
Miki hesitated at the sliding door, yukata clutched to her chest. Ryosuke had already changed into his—navy cotton, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the obi tied loose. The fabric stretched across his shoulders; she could see the flex of muscle when he moved.
"I'll go first," she said. "Give you privacy."
He caught her wrist gently. "We used to bathe together. Nothing I haven't seen."
*Everything has changed*, she wanted to say. Instead, she let him lead her onto the deck.
The night air bit her bare ankles. Ryosuke knelt, untied her geta, set them aside. His fingers brushed the hollow behind her knee—accidental, maybe. Heat flared anyway.
Miki faced the forest, fingers fumbling with her obi. The knot resisted. A soft laugh escaped her—nerves.
"Here." Ryosuke stepped behind her. His hands replaced hers, deftly loosening the silk. The yukata parted; cool air kissed her spine. She felt the weight of his gaze like a touch.
She let the robe slide from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet, leaving her in the black lace set. The bra cupped her full breasts, nipples already peaked from cold and something else. The matching panties sat low on her hips, a thin strip of lace barely covering the dark curls beneath.
Ryosuke's breath hitched. She heard the soft rustle as he shed his own yukata. Naked now, both of them, though she hadn't turned.
Miki stepped down into the water. It closed around her calves, thighs, waist—hot, silky, shocking after the chill. She sank to her shoulders with a sigh that sounded too much like a moan.
Ryosuke followed. The water displaced, lapping at her collarbones. He settled opposite her, knees brushing hers under the surface.
For a long moment, only the spout spoke.
Then: "Your shoulders," he said, voice low. "You're tense."
Miki laughed shakily. "I wonder why."
He shifted closer. "Turn around."
She did, slowly, water swirling. Her back to him now, she felt his hands settle on her shoulders—warm, strong, thumbs pressing into the knots beneath her shoulder blades. She melted forward, elbows on the stone edge, forehead resting on her forearms.
Ryosuke worked in silence: slow circles, firm pressure. Each stroke loosened something deeper than muscle. When his thumbs traced the strap of her bra, she didn't flinch. When his fingers slipped beneath to knead bare skin, she arched into the touch.
"Feels good?" he murmured against her ear.
"Too good," she breathed.
His hands slid lower, tracing the line of her spine. The bra clasp gave with a soft click; he hadn't even asked. The lace floated away on a current. Miki's breasts, heavy and free, bobbed just beneath the surface.
Ryosuke's palms cupped them from behind, gentle, reverent. His thumbs brushed her nipples—once, twice. She gasped, hips jerking involuntarily. The water hid the slickness gathering between her thighs, but not the tremor in her thighs.
"Ryosuke…"
"I know." His voice cracked. "Tell me to stop."
She couldn't.
One hand stayed at her breast, rolling the nipple between calloused fingers. The other dipped lower, tracing the waistband of her panties. He hooked a finger beneath, paused.
Miki turned in the circle of his arms. Water streamed from her hair, her lashes. Their eyes locked—hers dark with grief and hunger, his bright with something fierce and tender.
She reached between them, fingers brushing the rigid length of him beneath the water. He was thick, velvet over steel, pulsing against her palm. A low groan tore from his throat.
Miki stroked once, slow, learning the shape of him. The head flared against her thumb; a bead of precum mixed with the spring water. She circled it, spread it, stroked again.
Ryosuke's head fell to her shoulder, teeth grazing the tendon there. His hips rocked into her grip, shallow thrusts that sent ripples across the bath. His hand covered hers, guiding the rhythm—faster, tighter.
"Mom…" The word was wrecked, half-prayer.
She felt him swell, throb. His free hand clutched the stone edge; knuckles white. With a muffled curse, he came—hot pulses spilling over her fingers, her thigh, dissolving instantly in the water.
The aftershocks left him trembling. He buried his face in her wet hair, breathing hard.
Miki's own need coiled tight, unmet, but she felt strangely full. She pressed a kiss to his temple, tasting salt and steam.
"First time anyone's touched me in a year," she whispered.
Ryosuke lifted his head. His eyes were glassy, determined. "Then let me return the favor."
Before she could answer, the intercom chimed again—dinner in ten minutes. They startled apart like guilty teenagers.
Miki laughed, shaky and real. "Later," she said, the promise hanging between them like incense.
Ryosuke's answering smile was slow, wolfish. "Count on it."
They climbed out, skin flushed pink from heat and something hotter. The yukatas went back on, but the obis stayed loose.
Dinner waited on the low table: sashimi glistening like jewels, miso soup fragrant with kombu, a tiny lacquered box of seasonal pickles. They knelt across from each other, knees almost touching under the kotatsu.
Neither of them tasted much. The air crackled with what came next.
Outside, the rotenburo steamed on, patient and waiting.