Kanako woke before the sun, the storm's aftermath dripping from the eaves. Her lips still carried the ghost of yuzu and Haruto's mouth; her thighs ached from the counter's edge. Shame arrived with the light, sliding between her ribs like a cold knife.
She showered until the water ran tepid, scrubbing at skin that refused to forget. In the mirror, her reflection looked the same—crow's-feet at the eyes, silver threading her dark hair—but the woman staring back felt branded.
Aya left for work without a word, heels sharp as accusations. Haruto's office door stayed closed. Kanako moved through chores on autopilot: folding laundry, wiping counters that still smelled faintly of scorched dashi. Every task felt like penance.
By noon the apartment was spotless and suffocating. She escaped to the balcony, letting the damp air cool her cheeks. Below, salarymen hurried under umbrellas; above, clouds hung low and bruised. She pressed her palms to the railing and tried to pray, but the words tangled.
A soft click behind her. Haruto stood in the doorway, sketchbook clutched to his chest like armor.
"Kanako-san." His voice cracked on her name. "Can we… talk?"
She nodded, throat tight. He stepped outside, closing the door against the empty rooms.
They stood side by side, not touching, watching rain drip from the neighbor's laundry. The silence stretched until it snapped.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Last night, I—"
"Don't." She turned to him, eyes fierce. "Don't apologize for something we both did."
His shoulders sagged. "Aya—"
"Is my daughter. And this is wrong." The admission burned. "But I can't stop replaying it."
Haruto's breath hitched. He opened the sketchbook with trembling fingers. The page was new: her face in the lightning flash, eyes closed, mouth parted in pleasure. The lines were raw, almost violent in their honesty.
"I drew this at 3 a.m.," he whispered. "I can't get you out of my head."
Kanako stared at the drawing until tears blurred the pencil strokes. She reached out, not for the paper but for his wrist—pulse racing beneath thin skin.
"Come inside," she said. "Before someone sees."
---
Her bedroom smelled of tatami and the lavender sachets she sewed when grief kept her awake. The door locked with a soft snick that sounded like surrender.
They stood three feet apart, the air between them humming. Sunlight filtered through rice-paper blinds, striping the futon in gold.
"I just want to hold you," Haruto said. "Nothing more. Unless…"
Kanako's laugh was watery. "We're terrible at 'nothing more.'"
He closed the distance slowly, giving her every chance to step back. She didn't. His arms slid around her waist, tentative; she buried her face in his shoulder, breathing cedar and warm cotton. They stood like that until the trembling stopped.
When she lifted her head, his eyes were dark with want and something softer—worship, maybe. He cupped her cheek, thumb tracing the faint lines beside her mouth.
"You're beautiful," he said. "Every part."
The kiss started gentle—apology, gratitude, confession—but deepened fast. Kanako's fingers fisted in his shirt, pulling him toward the futon. They sank down without breaking apart, mouths hungry now, hands mapping forbidden territory.
Clothes came off in layers: his T-shirt over his head, her blouse unbuttoned with shaking fingers. Haruto paused at her bra—simple beige cotton, nothing like the lace Aya wore—and pressed his lips to the swell above the cup.
"Thank you," he murmured against her skin. "For feeding us. For seeing me."
Tears pricked Kanako's eyes. She arched into his mouth as he kissed lower, peeling the bra away to tongue her nipple with slow, reverent strokes. The sound she made was half sob, half moan.
He moved down her body like a pilgrim: kissing the soft pouch of her stomach, the faint silver lines where Aya had grown. "These are proof," he whispered. "Proof you gave life."
Kanako's hands threaded into his hair, guiding him lower. He hooked fingers in her skirt's waistband, sliding it down with her panties in one motion. She was bare to him now, thighs trembling.
Haruto looked up, eyes asking permission. She nodded, spreading her knees.
His mouth was warm, careful—learning her with the same focus he'd shown grating yuzu. Kanako's hips lifted off the futon; her fingers clutched the sheets. When his tongue circled her clit, she bit her lip to muffle the cry.
He brought her to the edge slowly, then over—pleasure crashing through her in waves that left her gasping his name. Haruto crawled back up, kissing her through the aftershocks, letting her taste herself on his lips.
"Your turn," she whispered, reaching for his belt.
He shook his head. "This was for you."
But she insisted, pushing him onto his back. His cock strained against his boxers; she freed him with gentle hands. He was beautiful—flushed, leaking at the tip. Kanako bent to taste him, swirling her tongue until his hips jerked.
"Kanako—please—"
She climbed astride him, guiding him inside with a slow, slick slide. They both groaned at the stretch, the perfect fit. For a moment they stayed still, foreheads touching, breathing each other in.
Then she began to move—small rolls of her hips at first, then deeper. Haruto's hands gripped her thighs, thumbs tracing stretch marks like braille. Their rhythm built, steady and unhurried, the futon creaking softly beneath them.
"Look at me," he said.
She did. Their eyes locked as she rode him, pleasure coiling tight again. His hand slipped between them, circling her clit until she shattered a second time, inner muscles clenching around him.
Haruto followed with a broken groan, hips lifting to spill deep inside her. They clung together, slick with sweat, hearts hammering in sync.
After, he held her like something fragile. Kanako's tears soaked his shoulder.
"This was a mistake," she whispered.
"I know," he said, but his arms tightened. "Just… let me hold you a little longer."
They lay tangled until the light shifted, shadows lengthening across the tatami. Neither spoke of tomorrow. The room smelled of sex and lavender and the faint, lingering sweetness of yuzu.
When they finally dressed, Haruto kissed her forehead. "I'll fix the dashi tonight," he said. "From scratch."
Kanako managed a shaky laugh. "We'll need it."
He left first, closing the door softly behind him. She stood alone in the quiet, feeling the warmth of him trickle down her thigh—evidence, accusation, promise.
In the kitchen, the ruined pot still waited. Kanako rolled up her sleeves. Some things could be salvaged with patience and heat. Others… she wasn't sure.
But as she filled the sink, her body hummed with a new recipe: one part guilt, two parts longing, and a dangerous pinch of hope.