The last dish had been cleared away twenty minutes ago. The low table now held only a half-empty tokkuri of junmai-shu, two ochoko cups, and the faint scent of grilled saury lingering in the air. The shōji screens were closed; the only light came from a single paper lantern, its glow pooling like warm honey across the tatami.
Miki sat seiza, yukata sleeves pushed high, cheeks flushed from sake and steam. Ryosuke lounged on his side, elbow propped, the navy cotton stretched tight across his chest. The obi had come completely undone; the fabric gaped open to reveal the sharp cut of his obliques, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the fold.
Neither had spoken since the proprietress whisked the trays away. The silence wasn't awkward; it was loaded, humming like a plucked string.
Ryosuke reached for the tokkuri, poured the last of the sake into Miki's cup. His fingers brushed hers—deliberate this time. She didn't pull away.
"Another?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I'm already dizzy."
"From the sake?"
"From everything."
He set the flask down, shifted closer until their knees touched. The futon waited behind them, still rolled, but the space between it and the table felt suddenly too small.
Miki traced the rim of her cup. "I keep thinking I should feel worse about… earlier. In the bath." Her voice was soft, almost wondering. "But I don't."
Ryosuke's gaze was steady. "Do you want to feel worse?"
"No." The word came out fierce. She met his eyes. "I want to feel *more*."
The lantern flame flickered; shadows danced across his face. He sat up slowly, closing the last handspan of distance. His hand lifted, hovered, then settled at the nape of her neck, thumb stroking the fine hairs there.
"Miki," he said—her name, not *Mom*, and the sound of it cracked something open inside her chest. "I need to tell you something."
She waited, breath shallow.
"I've wanted you for years." The confession spilled out raw, unpolished. "Not like a son. Like a man. Every time you bent over the laundry, every time you laughed at Dad's stupid jokes, every time you cried in the shower and thought no one heard; I was hard for you. I hated myself for it."
Miki's lips parted. Shock, yes, but beneath it a dark, treacherous bloom of relief.
"I thought I was sick," he continued, voice rough. "Then Dad died and you were drowning and I told myself it was just grief making me crazy. But tonight—" His thumb traced her lower lip. "Tonight I touched you and you let me and I'm done pretending."
The air left her lungs in a rush. She set the cup aside, hands trembling. "Show me."
Ryosuke's eyes flared. He surged forward, mouth crashing into hers. This kiss was nothing like the tentative brush on the mountain bench; it was hunger, teeth and tongue and the scrape of stubble against her chin. Miki moaned into it, fingers clawing at his shoulders, dragging him down until they sprawled across the tatami.
The yukata fell open completely. Ryosuke's mouth left hers to trail fire down her throat, her collarbone, the slope of one breast. He paused at the nipple—still swollen from the bath—then took it between his lips and sucked hard.
Miki's back arched off the floor. "Ah—!"
He lavished the peak with tongue and gentle teeth, one hand kneading the other breast, rolling the nipple until she writhed. Wetness soaked her thighs; she could smell her own arousal, sharp and sweet beneath the sulfur lingering on their skin.
Ryosuke pulled back just enough to look at her. "Tell me what you need."
She answered by guiding his hand between her legs. The yukata had ridden up to her hips; her panties were gone—lost somewhere between the bath and dinner. His fingers found slick folds, parted them, slid through the evidence of how desperately she wanted this.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're soaked."
Two fingers pushed inside, slow and thick. Miki's hips bucked; her inner walls clenched greedily. He curled them, searching, and when he stroked a spot that made her vision white out, she cried out—sharp, shocked.
"There?" he murmured against her breast.
"Yes—*god*, don't stop—"
He didn't. His thumb found her clit, circling in tight, relentless strokes while his fingers pumped in and out. The wet sounds were obscene, intoxicating. Miki's hands scrabbled at the tatami, nails scraping straw. Her thighs trembled, spread wider, heels digging for leverage.
Ryosuke watched her face like it was the only thing in the world. "Let go, Miki. I've got you."
The orgasm hit her like a wave breaking over rocks—sudden, violent, glorious. She came with a choked sob, pussy fluttering around his fingers, juices coating his palm. He kept stroking through it, drawing it out until she was boneless, gasping, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
When the tremors faded, he withdrew gently, brought his glistening fingers to his mouth, and licked them clean. The sight sent a fresh pulse of heat through her.
Miki reached for him, fingers fumbling with the last of his yukata. It fell away, and there he was—fully erect, flushed dark, a bead of precum pearling at the slit. She wrapped her hand around him, stroked once, twice. He groaned, hips jerking.
"On the futon," she whispered.
They moved together, clumsy with need. Ryosuke spread the futon with one hand while Miki pushed him down onto his back. She straddled his thighs, yukata hanging open like a curtain around them. The lantern painted gold across her heavy breasts, the curve of her waist, the dark triangle between her legs.
She took him in hand again, lined him up, sank down in one slow, deliberate glide.
They both cried out.
He filled her completely—stretching, burning, perfect. Miki paused, adjusting to the size, the angle, the sheer *wrongness* of it that somehow felt righter than anything in a year. Ryosuke's hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to bruise.
"Move," he begged.
She did. Slow rolls at first, grinding her clit against his pubic bone, savoring every inch. Then faster, lifting and dropping, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the quiet room. Her breasts bounced with each thrust; Ryosuke sat up to catch one in his mouth, sucking hard as she rode him.
The second climax built faster, coiling tight at the base of her spine. Ryosuke's thumb found her clit again, rubbing in time with her rhythm. She shattered a second time, inner muscles milking him, head thrown back, a low keen tearing from her throat.
He followed seconds later—hips snapping up, a guttural sound as he spilled deep inside her, pulse after pulse. Miki collapsed forward, forehead to his shoulder, feeling the wet heat of him flood her, mark her.
They stayed locked together, breathing hard, sweat cooling on their skin. Outside, the rotenburo steamed on, patient. Inside, the lantern burned lower.
Ryosuke's arms came around her, cradling her close. He pressed a kiss to her damp temple.
"I love you," he said into her hair. "Not like a son. Like this. Always like this."
Miki's answer was to tighten around him, still buried inside her, and whisper, "Then don't ever leave."
The futon beneath them smelled of sex and sake and mountain spring water. Somewhere in the walls, the ryokan's old beams creaked like they were sighing in approval.
Neither of them slept for a long time.