The first rumble rolled in just after midnight, low and distant, like a truck on the mountain road.
Miki stirred on the futon, Ryosuke's arm heavy across her waist, his breath warm against the nape of her neck. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the rotenburo lanterns bleeding through the shōji.
Another rumble, closer. The air pressure dropped; the tatami seemed to exhale.
Ryosuke woke fully when the sky cracked open. Lightning strobed white across the ceiling, illuminating their tangled limbs, the sticky sheen of cream and honey still drying on their skin. Thunder followed immediately, a cannon shot that rattled the paper screens.
Miki flinched. "I hate storms."
"I've got you." He pulled her closer, spooning her tightly. His cock, half-hard from dreams, nestled against her ass. "Remember when you used to hide under the kotatsu during typhoons?"
"I was thirty," she muttered. "And pregnant with you."
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her back. "Full circle."
Rain lashed the roof in sudden, violent sheets. Wind howled through the eaves. The power flickered once, twice, then died. Darkness swallowed them whole.
Miki's heart hammered. She turned in his arms, seeking his mouth. The kiss was frantic—teeth clacking, tongues desperate. Thunder crashed again; she whimpered into him.
Ryosuke rolled her beneath him, shielding her with his body. "Look at me," he said against her lips. "Only me."
Lightning flashed. In that frozen second, she saw him—eyes fierce, jaw clenched, every muscle taut with protectiveness. Then darkness, and his mouth was on hers again, slower now, grounding.
He reached blindly for the bedside drawer, found the small beeswax candle the ryokan left for emergencies. A match flared; golden light bloomed. Shadows danced across the walls like lovers.
Miki watched him light it, the flame gilding the sweat on his chest, the sharp cut of his hipbones. The candle's scent—honey and hinoki—mingled with their own musk.
Ryosuke set it on the low table, then returned to her. He kissed her forehead, her closed eyelids, the tear tracks she hadn't realized were there. "I'm here," he whispered. "Let the storm rage."
His hands mapped her body in the flickering light—palms sliding over her breasts, thumbs circling nipples until they ached. He mouthed down her sternum, tongue tracing the sticky remnants of honey between her ribs. When he reached her navel, he dipped inside, tasting salt and sweetness.
Miki's fingers threaded through his hair, guiding him lower. He settled between her thighs, shoulders forcing them wide. The candle painted gold across the dark curls, the slick pink of her folds. He licked a slow stripe from entrance to clit, then circled the swollen nub with the flat of his tongue.
Thunder boomed; Miki's hips bucked. Ryosuke pinned her down with one forearm across her pelvis, the other hand sliding two fingers into her heat. He curled them, stroked that spot that made her sob, and sucked her clit in pulsing rhythm with the storm.
She came hard, back bowing off the futon, a cry swallowed by the wind. Ryosuke didn't stop—kept licking, gentler now, drawing out every aftershock until she was limp and trembling.
He crawled up her body, candlelight flickering over the sweat on his brow. "Need you," he rasped.
Miki nodded, frantic. She reached between them, guided him to her entrance. He pushed in slow—inch by inch, eyes locked on hers. The stretch burned sweetly; she was swollen from the day's excesses, but the ache only heightened the pleasure.
When he was fully seated, he paused, forehead to hers. "Tell me."
"Move," she breathed.
He did—long, deep strokes that dragged over every nerve. The futon creaked; the candle guttered in a draft. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the strain in his arms, the flex of his ass as he thrust. Miki wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
The storm peaked with them. Rain hammered like fists; wind screamed. Ryosuke's rhythm faltered—he buried his face in her neck, teeth grazing her pulse. "Close—"
"Inside," she gasped. "Please—"
One final thrust and he came, spilling hot and endless, hips jerking with each pulse. The clench of her walls milked him dry; Miki followed seconds later, a silent scream as her second orgasm ripped through her, toes curling, nails raking his back.
They collapsed together, slick with sweat and rain-scented air. Ryosuke stayed inside her, softening slowly. The candle had burned low, wax pooling like tears.
Miki's voice was hoarse. "I forgot him for a minute."
Ryosuke lifted his head. "Good."
"No—" She cupped his cheek, thumb tracing the wet track of a tear that wasn't hers. "I mean… the pain didn't hurt. Just now. With you."
He kissed her palm. "Then let me keep making it stop."
Outside, the storm began to ebb—thunder retreating to a growl, rain softening to a hush. The candle flickered once more and went out.
In the sudden dark, Ryosuke pulled the quilt over them, still joined, and held her until the only sound was their breathing and the steady drip of water from the eaves.
Sleep took them like that—mother and son, lovers, storm-tamed and candle-kissed—while the rotenburo steamed on, patient witness to the night.
Dawn crept in pale and quiet, the storm's fury spent.
Miki woke first, cocooned in Ryosuke's arms, his cock soft but still inside her from the night. The futon was a battlefield of tangled quilts and dried wax; the candle stub had burned to a nub on the table. She flexed experimentally—every muscle sang, thighs sticky, breasts tender from his mouth. A slow smile curved her lips.
Ryosuke stirred when she kissed his jaw. "Morning," he mumbled, voice gravel and sleep.
"Checkout's at ten," she whispered. "We're late."
He groaned, rolled his hips once—lazy, instinctive. The movement sent a pulse of heat through her. "Five more minutes."
Miki laughed softly and disentangled herself, wincing at the wet slide of him leaving her body. They showered together in the tiny en-suite—quick, efficient, but not without lingering touches: soap-slick hands over breasts, ass, the half-hard length that refused to behave.
Dressed in yesterday's clothes, they packed in silence. The suite looked smaller in daylight, the futon already stripped by unseen hands. The proprietress met them at the genkan with a small paper bag and a knowing smile.
"A gift," she said, pressing it into Miki's hands. Inside: two onsen tamago, still warm, and a Polaroid—them on the rotenburo deck at sunset, heads bent together, steam curling around their ankles. Ryosuke's arm was around her waist; Miki's hand rested on his chest. They looked… happy.
Miki's throat tightened. "Thank you."
The old woman bowed. "Come again. The spring remembers."
---
The Corolla's trunk slammed. Ryosuke slid behind the wheel; Miki took the passenger seat, the Polaroid tucked into her purse like contraband. The mountain road unspooled beneath them, wet asphalt gleaming, pines dripping. Neither spoke until the ryokan vanished in the rearview.
Ryosuke's hand found her knee, thumb tracing idle circles. "Regrets?"
Miki covered his hand with hers. "Only that we have to go home."
He glanced sideways, eyes dark. "Pull over?"
They found a scenic overlook ten minutes later—empty, ringed by cedar, the valley spread below like a green quilt. Ryosuke cut the engine. The silence was sudden, enormous.
Miki unbuckled, climbed into the backseat. Ryosuke followed, folding his long frame through the gap. The windows were already fogging.
She pushed him down across the seats, straddled his hips. "Windows," she murmured.
He cracked one; cool air rushed in, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth. Miki yanked his T-shirt up, mouth latching onto a nipple. Ryosuke hissed, fingers threading through her hair.
Clothes came off in frantic layers—her dress rucked to her waist, his shorts shoved to his knees. No underwear; they'd stopped pretending. Miki sank onto him with a shared groan, the angle tight in the confined space. The car rocked gently with each roll of her hips.
Ryosuke's hands gripped her ass, guiding her faster. "Fuck, you feel—"
"Shh." She kissed him to shut him up, tasting coffee from the ryokan's breakfast. Her breasts bounced against his chest; the seatbelt buckle dug into her knee. She didn't care.
He flipped them suddenly—she yelped as her back hit the seat, legs splayed over his shoulders. Ryosuke thrust deep, the new angle brutal and perfect. The car's suspension squeaked in rhythm; windows fogged completely.
Miki's nails raked his back. "Harder."
He obliged, hips snapping, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space. Her climax hit like a freight train—pussy clenching, a sharp cry muffled against his shoulder. Ryosuke pulled out at the last second, fisting himself. Hot stripes painted her lower back, her ass, dripping down the crease.
They collapsed together, panting, the car reeking of sex and cedar air freshener. Ryosuke grabbed a travel tissue, cleaned her gently, then kissed the small of her back where his release had landed.
"Home?" he asked, voice rough.
Miki nodded, forehead against the cool window. "Home."
The engine turned over. They rolled back onto the road, windows cracked, the scent of their joining lingering like a promise.
Two hours later, the city skyline rose ahead—familiar, ordinary, waiting to swallow them whole. Miki slipped the Polaroid from her purse, studied their faces in the fading light.
Ryosuke's hand found hers on the console. "Whatever happens," he said, "we figure it out together."
She squeezed once. "Together."
The Corolla merged into traffic, carrying them forward into the rest of their lives—mother and son, lovers, storm-tamed and spring-marked—while the mountains faded in the mirror, keeping their secrets.