Night cooled like water; moonlight poured in at a slant.
Only low voices disturbed the house. Mostly Mrs. Yuigahama spoke; Sosuke Kitahara sipped now and then, murmuring in reply. Without meaning to, his gaze slid to the opening of her robe snow-pale skin, the hint of a deep valley wickedly tempting.
His heart kicked faster. His mouth felt dry. She was born to bewitch, he thought. No wonder her husband was a lucky man.
He didn't rush her. When she finally ran out of things to tell, hunger nudged her, and she took up the bowl and ate in small, absent-minded bites.
Sosuke smiled faintly. A photo album lay on the low table; he opened it absentmindedly and found it full of her younger self. The girl in those pictures was unformed yet, a far cry from the woman beside him.
"Oh why did I leave that out here?" she said, half scolding herself. But since Yui was gone and her husband now just a memory, the album had become a talisman. She swirled her wine, took a small sip, and glanced at the book in his hands. "They're all old photos. I insisted on printing them. Yui teased me for being behind the times 'Use a digital album, Mom!' I have another book in my room, actually. There are pictures of Yui in it. Want to see?"
Her aim was simple: let Sosuke meet her daughter first on the page give the name a face.
"I'd like that."
He set the album down, took a sip of wine, and noticed how sweet the Cheval Blanc had become.
He fetched the thicker volume and set it on the table. She patted the cushion beside her and began to narrate trips, small mishaps, family jokes.
She loved to travel. In Japan, "housewife" can be a full-time role, and this one had its perks: when holidays came and her husband took leave, she had the freedom to go. After Yui started school, their breaks followed the calendar winter, summer and every time, the three of them would set off. Photo after photo piled up into years.
Beauty runs in families; the camera liked them both. In every place, they left a bright, poised figure behind.
Sosuke followed her slender finger from page to page, listening as she relived temples and train stations, food stalls and ferry decks. He found himself drawn in until the edge of his vision betrayed him, tugging back to the soft swell beneath her robe and the elegant line of her legs. Unease tightened in his chest.
There was no denying it: this woman ripe with a particular, adult grace pulled at him like a tide.
She pointed to a picture and brightened. "This one was at Kiyomizu-dera in Kyoto. It was crowded. I almost lost Yui. I wanted to take more, but we spent the time finding each other. Look at the main hall so grand. I've been to a lot of temples, but that place… it feels different. Standing there, I felt washed clean. For a moment I forgot myself. It was… wonderful."
He lowered his eyes. The photo showed only her, hands pressed together before the hall, her expression devout. "You look so sincere," he said softly. "What did you pray for?"
Her brightness dimmed. A blush rose, and she shook her head, lifting her glass for cover. "Nothing important. Don't ask."
"It had to matter," he teased gently. "No one looks like that for nothing."
His gaze lingered on her face on the smooth curve of her jaw, the glow beneath her skin. An impulse ran through him; he wanted to reach out and touch.
Sense prevailed. He swallowed it, tipped back his wine, and let the warmth flow out through every pore.
When he looked again, the night had made her more bewitching. A flush dusted her cheeks; her eyes were liquid with light. His chest went loose and warm.
She felt it too heat gathering under her skin. She wanted to shrug off layers she didn't even have on. She fanned herself, tugged at her collar.
Cheval Blanc, and it hits like this? she thought, turning a page. She leaned forward, pointing to a white field. "Niseko, in Hokkaido. In winter it's blinding snow everywhere, sunlight off every surface. Yui and I were bundled like polar bears. It was so heavy just to walk. Look at these we look ridiculous."
Sosuke nodded, smiling at the story though his eyes had slipped, unfaithful, following the robe's neckline instead of the winter scenes. "So white you can't keep your eyes open," he said, distracted. "When this is over, I should go."
The thought pleased her; she bent still lower, eager to share another memory. But Sosuke had stopped seeing photographs. The "view" in front of him stole the breath from his lungs. His pulse ran ahead of him. Only when she sat back did he drag his eyes up and say, a bit too quickly, "I'm going to wash up."
"Mhm. Down the hall."
She propped her chin and kept turning pages, her face softening with each scrap of happiness she recovered. A housewife's days can be dull; vacations are the spice in the stew. Only one thing soured the taste after a few pages, there were fewer pictures of husband and wife together. Thinking of the man who wouldn't be in any more photos, her chest tightened.
Sosuke stood at the toilet for a long time without needing it. The memory of what he'd just seen ricocheted around his skull, sparking heat. At last it ebbed. He buckled, washed his hands, smiled wryly at the mirror, and stepped out into the sight of Mrs. Yuigahama's tear-wet face.
"Crying again?" he said, half a laugh, half a sigh. "You really are made of water."
He sat beside her and offered tissues. "Be strong."
"Mhm." She stopped, wiped her eyes with her fingers instead, and whispered, "Am I being pathetic?"
He patted her shoulder. "Everyone is, sometimes."
She stared at nothing for a while. "Even without a reply, I kept thinking he must be alive somewhere. I suppose some things come to pass, no matter what you hope."
Sosuke kept quiet, brow furrowed. Then, after a brief hesitation, he lifted his hand and brushed away the tracks on her cheek.
She exhaled and, without thinking, closed her fingers around his, pressing the warmth to her skin. She sat like that, dazed, until she woke to what she'd done, let go, and laughed at herself, pushing her hair forward to hide. "Talking helped," she said lightly. "I do feel better."
"Then when you need it, I'll listen," he said.
She bit her lip and nodded. "You're right. Be strong. Cry, hurt, and then keep living."
He ladled her a bowl of soup. "Exactly. If you hold on, you'll see most things aren't as bad as you feared."
She sipped, then smiled a soft, syrupy sound in her voice. "Who knew you were thoughtful. Good at cheering people up, too."
He rubbed his nose, grinning. "You're only noticing now? I've always been considerate."
"You were awfully macho earlier," she retorted. "Since you claim otherwise, I'll just have to keep you under observation."
"It's late," he said, letting the topic go with a chuckle. "Turn in. I'll tidy up and rest too. We leave in the morning."
"All right."
She picked up the album and, with a quick, sideways glance, said a little shyly, "Kitahara could I trouble you again?"
"Never trouble."
He slipped an arm under her knees and carried her back, set her on the mattress, and pulled the door to. He checked the locks and windows, cleaned up the living room, washed his hands. The clock read nearly nine.
On his way to the sofa he noticed a few photos on the floor, bent to pick them up…and stilled. In them she glowed lush, irresistible. Heat stirred again.
He couldn't shake the images from dinner pink cheeks, a teasing curve to her mouth, the proud lines of her body. His head felt full of smoke, his throat dry.
What's wrong with me? He squinted, sat and stood and sat again, lasting all of fifteen minutes before the itch grew teeth. He poured himself another splash for courage, gathered the fallen pictures, crept to her door, and tapped. He cleared his throat, pitched his voice low. "Are you asleep?"
After a pause, her voice drifted out, warm and musical. "Not yet, Kitahara. What is it?"
"Some photos fell out of the album. Should I bring them in?"
Silence followed. Something delicate, tenuous, took shape in the quiet. He waited, nerves taut, until at last she answered with a gentle refusal. "Leave them there. I'm tipsy my head's fuzzy. Give them to me tomorrow."
He frowned, hesitated and turned the handle anyway. The door gave without effort. He leaned in.
She lay on her back, still in her robe, a light throw across her waist. The pale blanket did nothing to hide the curves beneath.
He watched for a moment, then smiled and murmured, "Looks like you really are exhausted. Barely in bed and already drifting."
Her shoulders tightened; she glanced at him, schooling her expression into something easy. She touched her brow and laughed, girlish and flustered. "Not quite asleep. Just tipsy. Everything's a little blurry. Resting helped."
She turned her face away, twining a strand of hair around her finger. "Just put the photos back, and then do me a favor and go back to the living room. That would help."
He sighed under his breath and held the pictures out. "Could I… keep these two? The solo shots."
She took them, flipped through and stopped. One was a scandalously hot swimsuit shot; the other two were intimate, youthful boudoir photos. She stuck out her tongue, cheeks flaming. "Absolutely not. Those are not for giving away."
"Why not?" he teased.
"Because they'll set people's imaginations on fire," she huffed, tucking them by her pillow. "And that would be a disaster."
"I'd hide them," he said, eyes laughing. "No one would ever see."
She hesitated, then exhaled, chose two of the boudoir prints, and handed them over. "Fine. These two. But keep them safe. If anyone saw… I'd die."
He traced the glossy edge with a fingertip. "Thank you."
She pretended not to notice, ears crimson. "I've never shown those to anyone. You're the first and the last."
He looked up at her radiant, mischievous face and felt a surge he could barely name. "In that case, should we toast? To… friendship?"
"No more," she said, flustered, eyes shut. "I want to sleep. Go on."
From the side, she was all sinuous lines and mature fragrance. Heat flared in him again, hard and sudden. His knees went oddly weak; a fire seemed to lick at his lower belly. What the ?
He liked her more than liked but his self-control wasn't poor, and this wasn't the first time lately that desire hit him like a fever. He frowned.
She turned back and saw him rooted there, color high, different from a moment ago. Startled, she sat up a little. "Kitahara, what's wrong?"
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Oh, you like the story? Wow, who knew. Go ahead, drop a review and throw some power stones maybe I'll be motivated to keep going.
The story's already ahead on Patron. Go there if you want to catch up faster!
[email protected]/_theon
Change @ to "a"