The house felt smaller when they stepped inside, as if the walls had shrunk in their absence.
The butsudan still held Hiroshi's photograph, the single white chrysanthemum now wilted. Miki paused in the genkan, keys clinking into the bowl. Ryosuke's hand brushed the small of her back—light, reassuring—then withdrew.
"I'll take the bags," he said, and disappeared down the hall.
Miki exhaled, slipped off her shoes, and padded to the altar. She replaced the flower with a fresh one from the vase on the table, lit a new stick of incense. The smoke curled upward, carrying her silent apology and gratitude in equal measure.
Ryosuke returned, changed into sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, hair still damp from a quick shower. He leaned in the doorway, watching her. "Dinner?"
"I'll cook." She rolled her sleeves. "Your favorite—tonkatsu."
They moved around the kitchen in practiced choreography: Miki breading pork, Ryosuke slicing cabbage, the sizzle of oil and the low hum of the range hood filling the quiet. Their elbows brushed; their hips bumped. Neither flinched.
At the table, they ate with the same easy silence they'd shared on the mountain—only now it carried weight. When Ryosuke reached for the tonkatsu sauce, his knuckles grazed hers. Miki's pulse stuttered.
After dishes, she lingered in the living room. The marital bed waited upstairs—king-sized, cold on one side for a year. Ryosuke stood behind her, hands on her shoulders.
"Sleep in your old room," she said. "We're home now. Rules."
He turned her gently. "Whose rules?"
She didn't answer.
---
Night settled. Miki showered, slipped into a silk nightgown—black, the one she'd worn on their tenth anniversary. She stood before the full-length mirror in the bedroom, studying the woman reflected back: fuller breasts, softer waist, faint bruises on her hips shaped like fingerprints. She looked… alive.
The door creaked. Ryosuke stepped in, barefoot, wearing only boxers. He carried the Polaroid from the ryokan.
"I thought we'd keep this," he said, voice low. He set it on the dresser, right beside Hiroshi's wedding photo—both men smiling at her from opposite ends of time.
Miki's breath caught.
Ryosuke moved behind her, hands settling on her waist. In the mirror, she watched his reflection slide the straps of her gown down her arms. The silk whispered to the floor. He cupped her breasts, thumbs circling nipples until they peaked against the glass.
"Look," he murmured against her ear. "Look at us."
Miki obeyed. The mirror showed everything: her flushed cheeks, his broad shoulders framing her, the contrast of his tanned hands on her pale skin. He pressed closer; the hard line of his cock nestled against her ass through thin cotton.
One hand drifted lower, fingers parting her folds. She was already wet—had been since the kitchen. He stroked slowly, eyes locked on hers in the reflection. When he sank two fingers inside, her knees buckled; he held her up with an arm banded under her breasts.
"Watch," he said again.
She did—watched his fingers pump in and out, glistening with her arousal; watched her own face contort with pleasure; watched him free himself with his other hand, stroke his cock in time with his thrusts inside her.
Miki braced her palms on the mirror, fogging the glass with each pant. Ryosuke withdrew his fingers, replaced them with the blunt head of his cock, and pushed in slow. The stretch burned sweetly; she was swollen from the car, from the ryokan, from wanting him constantly.
He set a steady rhythm—deep, deliberate strokes that dragged over every nerve. The mirror reflected it all: her breasts swaying, his abs flexing, the slick slide of him disappearing into her again and again. Their eyes never left each other.
"Touch yourself," he growled.
Miki's hand slipped between her thighs, fingers circling her clit. The dual sensation—him inside, her own touch—sent her spiraling. She came with a sharp cry, pussy clenching around him, juices dripping down her thighs.
Ryosuke's control snapped. He spun her, lifted her onto the dresser. Wedding photo, Polaroid, perfume bottles—everything rattled as he thrust back in. Miki wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper.
The dresser thumped against the wall in time with their bodies. Ryosuke's mouth found her breast, sucked hard, teeth grazing the nipple. Miki's second orgasm built fast, coiling tight. She came again, head thrown back, a low keen tearing from her throat.
Ryosuke followed—hips snapping, a guttural sound as he buried himself deep and spilled inside her, pulse after pulse. He stayed there, forehead to hers, breathing hard.
When he finally pulled out, a trickle of their release slid down her thigh. Miki reached for a tissue, but Ryosuke caught her wrist.
"Let it stay," he said. "Let it mark you."
They climbed into the marital bed together—her side, his side, no space between. The sheets smelled of laundry soap and them. Ryosuke pulled her back to his chest, one hand splayed over her lower belly where his seed still warmed her.
Miki threaded her fingers through his. "This is our room now," she whispered.
"Ours," he echoed.
Outside, the city hummed—ordinary, indifferent. Inside, the mirror reflected two bodies entwined, the Polaroid glowing faintly in the moonlight, Hiroshi's smile a silent benediction.
Sleep took them like that—mother and son, lovers, home at last—while the house settled around them, keeping their new routine safe.
The second anniversary of Hiroshi's death fell on a Thursday.
Miki stood at the cemetery gate in a charcoal coat, hair twisted into a low knot, a single white chrysanthemum in her gloved hand. Ryosuke waited beside her, taller now, shoulders broader from a year of training and carrying her groceries, her grief, her heart. He wore the same navy track jacket from their first trip, sleeves pushed to the elbows despite the November chill.
They walked the gravel path in silence. The grave was simple: polished granite, Hiroshi's name etched in kanji, a small vase already holding fresh flowers—someone from the neighborhood association, perhaps. Miki knelt, placed her chrysanthemum beside the others, and lit incense. The smoke curled upward, catching the weak afternoon sun.
Ryosuke crouched beside her. "Hey, Dad," he said softly. "We're okay."
Miki's lips curved—small, real. She pressed her palms together, bowed, then stood. Ryosuke's hand found the small of her back, steady as always.
On the drive home, she stared out the window at the city sliding past. "I thought I'd cry," she admitted.
"You did last night," he said, thumb tracing the steering wheel. "In the shower. I held you."
She turned to him, eyes soft. "You always do."
---
The house had changed in subtle ways.
The butsudan still stood, but Hiroshi's photo now shared space with the ryokan Polaroid—mother and son, steam-curled and smiling. The marital bed was theirs alone; Ryosuke's old room had become a study. They'd installed a small onsen-themed bathroom off the master suite: cedar tub, river stones, a bamboo spout that gurgled constantly. Their private rotenburo, city-sized.
That night, after a quiet dinner of katsu curry—tradition now—Miki led him upstairs. The tub steamed, scented with yuzu. Candles flickered on the counter; the mirror was already fogging.
She undressed him slowly—jacket, T-shirt, sweatpants—kissing each inch of skin revealed. Ryosuke returned the favor, peeling away her sweater, her skirt, the black lace set she still wore for him. They stepped into the water together, facing each other in the lotus position, her legs wrapped around his waist, his cock already hard against her belly.
Miki sank onto him with a sigh—slow, familiar, perfect. The water buoyed them; they moved in gentle waves, foreheads touching, eyes locked. No rush, no storm, just the steady rhythm of two bodies that knew each other by heart.
Ryosuke's hands cupped her ass, guiding her grind. "Love you," he whispered against her lips.
"Love you," she echoed, voice breaking on the second word.
The climax built soft and deep, a warm tide rather than a crash. Miki came first—inner walls fluttering, a low moan muffled against his neck. Ryosuke followed seconds later, spilling inside her with a shudder, arms tightening until there was no space between them.
They stayed joined in the cooling water, breathing together. Steam curled around their shoulders like incense.
Miki traced the scar on his collarbone—a training injury from last spring. "Some waters run deeper than blood," she said.
Ryosuke smiled, kissed her slow and sweet. "And some heal everything."
Later, in bed, the city lights filtered through the curtains. Miki lay with her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The Polaroid sat on the nightstand, catching the glow.
She whispered into the dark, "You healed me."
Ryosuke's answer was to pull her closer, hand splayed over the faint curve of her lower belly—still flat, but not for long. A secret they hadn't spoken yet, only confirmed with a drugstore test and shared tears in the bathroom that morning.
Outside, November wind rattled the windows. Inside, the house held them safe—mother and son, lovers, family—while the future grew quiet and warm between their joined hands.
The End.