The futon was warm, tangled, and smelled of them.
Miki woke to the hush of Ryosuke's breathing against her neck and the slow throb of him still half-hard inside her. They had fallen asleep joined, too spent to separate. The lantern had burned out; only moonlight through the shōji painted silver across their skin.
She shifted. The movement drew a sleepy groan from him; his arm tightened across her waist.
"Cold," he mumbled.
Miki smiled in the dark. "The rotenburo's still hot."
A pause. Then his lips curved against her shoulder. "Race you."
They untangled with soft laughter, clumsy and shy in the afterglow. Yukatas were abandoned on the tatami; they padded naked onto the wooden deck. The night air kissed gooseflesh across Miki's breasts, her thighs. Steam rose in thick, fragrant clouds from the spring, lit from beneath by submerged lanterns—amber, indigo, blood-red.
Ryosuke stepped down first. Water closed around his hips, then his chest. He turned, extended a hand. Miki took it and followed, the heat shocking after the chill. It lapped at her nipples, then her collarbones as she sank to her shoulders.
For a moment they simply floated, faces close, foreheads touching. The only sounds were the bamboo spout and the soft slap of water against stone.
Ryosuke's hands found her waist beneath the surface. "I keep thinking I'll wake up."
"You're not dreaming," she whispered. "I'm here."
His mouth claimed hers—slow, languid, tasting of sleep and sex. The kiss deepened; tongues slid together, lazy and thorough. Miki's arms looped around his neck, breasts pressing to his chest. She felt him harden fully against her belly, thick and urgent.
Ryosuke walked her backward until her spine met the smooth curve of a boulder. The stone was warm from the spring. He lifted her easily; her legs wrapped his waist on instinct. Water buoyed them, weightless.
"Hold on," he murmured.
He entered her in one slick thrust—easier now, her body softened and open from earlier. Miki's head fell back against the rock, a low moan echoing into the trees. The angle was perfect; every stroke dragged the head of his cock across that spot inside her that turned her voice to broken syllables.
Ryosuke set a steady rhythm, hips rolling, water churning around them. His mouth found her throat, her breasts, sucking bruises into the pale skin above her heart. Miki's nails scored his shoulders; her heels dug into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
"Look at me," he said, voice ragged.
She did. Moonlight caught in his eyes—wild, reverent. The sight undid her. Pleasure coiled tight, then snapped. She came with a sharp cry, pussy clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. Ryosuke followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling hot inside her, a guttural sound muffled against her neck.
They stayed locked together, trembling, water lapping at their joined bodies. When he finally slipped free, a cloudy ribbon of their release drifted lazily on the current.
Miki laughed—soft, incredulous. "We're going to need another bath."
Ryosuke grinned, boyish and wicked. "Good thing it's private."
---
Later, they lay on the wide stone rim, half-submerged, her head on his chest. The sky above was a bowl of stars; somewhere an owl called.
Miki traced idle circles through the wet hair on his pectoral. "I used to bring you here when you were small. You'd splash until the water was cold."
"I remember." His fingers combed through her damp hair. "You'd wrap me in a towel and carry me inside. I thought you were the strongest person in the world."
"I was faking it," she admitted. "Your father worked late. I was terrified of dropping you."
Ryosuke pressed a kiss to her crown. "You never dropped me."
Silence settled, comfortable. Then: "Do you feel guilty?" he asked quietly.
Miki considered. The grief was still there—would always be—but it had receded to a dull ache, like a bruise pressed too hard. "I feel… alive," she said. "For the first time since the accident."
He rolled to face her, water streaming from his lashes. "I don't want to be a replacement."
"You're not." She cupped his cheek. "You're a continuation. A different chapter."
His eyes searched hers. Whatever he saw there made him smile—small, fierce, relieved. He kissed her again, soft and lingering, then stood and offered his hand.
"Come on. Futon's waiting."
They climbed out, skin pink and steaming. Miki paused to wring her hair; droplets pattered onto the deck. Ryosuke watched, openly admiring—the sway of her hips, the heavy bounce of her breasts, the faint red marks his mouth had left.
Inside, they didn't bother with yukatas. The futon welcomed them like an old friend. Ryosuke pulled the quilt over their damp bodies, spooning her from behind. His cock nestled soft against the cleft of her ass; his arm banded across her waist, palm splayed over her lower belly where his seed still warmed her.
Miki threaded her fingers through his. "Ryosuke?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you for kidnapping me."
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through her back. "Anytime."
Sleep tugged at them both, heavy and sweet. Outside, the rotenburo kept its vigil, steam curling into the indifferent stars.
In the hush before dawn, Miki dreamed—not of funerals or empty beds, but of water, endless and warm, carrying her forward into morning.
The first thing Miki felt was heat: Ryosuke's chest against her back, his arm a heavy band across her waist, and the unmistakable press of his morning erection nestled between the cheeks of her ass.
The second thing was panic.
Sunlight filtered through the shōji in pale gold stripes. The futon smelled of sex and cedar. Her thighs were sticky; his seed had dried in faint streaks across her belly. Every muscle ached in the sweetest way, but her mind snapped awake with a single, screaming thought:
*This is my son.*
She tried to ease out from under his arm. Ryosuke stirred, tightening reflexively, cock sliding along the cleft of her ass in a slow, unconscious thrust. A low, sleepy groan rumbled against her nape.
Miki froze.
His hand drifted upward, cupping her breast, thumb brushing the nipple to a stiff peak. "Morning," he mumbled, voice gravel-rough. He nuzzled the spot behind her ear, lips parting to taste salt and skin.
"Ryosuke, stop." The words cracked out sharper than she intended.
He stilled instantly. The arm withdrew; cool air rushed between them. Miki rolled to face him, clutching the quilt to her chest. His eyes were open now—hazel in the morning light, wary.
"I—" She swallowed. "We can't keep doing this."
Ryosuke sat up slowly, quilt pooling at his waist. The sheet tented over his lap; he didn't bother hiding it. "Because it's wrong?"
"Because I'm your *mother*." The title tasted foreign now, like a costume that no longer fit. "Last night was… I was lonely. Grieving. It doesn't mean—"
"It meant everything to me." His voice was quiet, steady. "And I saw your face when you came. That wasn't just loneliness."
Miki's cheeks burned. She looked away, toward the rotenburo still steaming beyond the glass. "I need space. Please."
Ryosuke nodded once. He rose, gloriously naked, and padded to the alcove where their yukatas hung. The muscles in his back flexed as he tied the obi; the fabric settled over the curve of his ass and thighs like it had been tailored for sin. He didn't look back.
"I'll make tea," he said, and slid the door shut behind him.
---
Miki stayed on the futon, knees drawn to her chest, until the scent of genmaicha drifted under the screen. She showered quickly—cold water to shock the haze from her skin—then dressed in yesterday's sweater and skirt. When she emerged, Ryosuke knelt at the low table, two cups steaming between them.
He didn't speak until she sat.
"I'm sorry if I pushed," he said. "I'll sleep on the floor tonight. We'll go home after breakfast. No more… anything."
The offer should have been a relief. Instead it hollowed her chest.
They sipped in silence. The tea scalded her tongue.
Halfway through the cup, Miki set it down. "I'm scared," she admitted.
"Of what people would say?"
"Of how much I *don't* care what people would say." She met his eyes. "Of how good it felt to be wanted again. Of how easy it would be to let you keep wanting me."
Ryosuke's knuckles whitened around his cup. "Then let me."
"Ryosuke—"
"One more time." He leaned forward, voice low. "Not because you're sad. Because you *choose* it. Then we decide together what comes next."
Miki's pulse thundered in her ears. The room smelled of tea and cedar and the faint musk still clinging to the futon. She looked at the hollow of his throat, the pulse beating there, the way his yukata gaped to reveal the top of his chest.
She stood. Walked around the table. Knelt in front of him.
His breath hitched.
Miki reached for the obi, tugged it loose. The yukata parted. She pushed it off his shoulders, baring him to the waist. His cock jutted up, flushed and leaking at the tip. She wrapped her fingers around it—still marveling at the heat, the weight—and stroked once, slow.
Ryosuke's head fell back, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth.
Miki rose, shimmied out of her skirt and panties, let the sweater follow. Naked, she straddled his lap on the tatami, knees bracketing his hips. The rough straw bit into her skin; she welcomed the sting.
"Look at me," she said.
He did. His hands settled on her waist, reverent.
She sank down onto him in one smooth glide—wet, open, aching from the night before. They both groaned. Miki paused, adjusting to the stretch, then began to move: slow, deliberate rolls of her hips, grinding her clit against his pelvis with every downward stroke.
Ryosuke's hands slid to her ass, guiding but not forcing. His mouth found her breast, tongue flicking the nipple in time with her rhythm. The futon lay forgotten; the table rocked with each thrust, tea sloshing over the rims of their cups.
Miki braced her hands on his shoulders, riding him harder. Her breasts bounced; sweat beaded between them. The slap of skin on skin echoed, obscene and perfect.
"Touch me," she gasped.
One hand left her ass, slipped between them. His thumb found her clit, circling fastily. The pressure coiled tight, then snapped. Miki came with a sharp cry, inner walls fluttering around him, juices coating his balls.
Ryosuke followed seconds later—hips snapping up, a guttural sound as he pulled out at the last second. Hot stripes painted her belly, her breasts, dripping down to where they were still joined at the hips.
They stayed locked together, panting. Miki rested her forehead against his, feeling the sticky warmth between them cool in the morning air.
"Still scared?" he whispered.
"Terrified," she said. "But I'm not running."
Ryosuke smiled—small, fierce, relieved—and kissed her slow and deep, tasting tea and salt and the promise of whatever came next.
Outside, the rotenburo steamed on, patient as ever. Inside, the tea grew cold, forgotten on the table.