Chapter 5: The Morning After
The gray light found the space between his eyelids. Yuji woke alone. The other side of the bed was cold, the sheets indented with the ghost of her shape. He pressed his face into her pillow, inhaling the last traces of her—lavender soap, night sweat, something uniquely Choso that made his chest ache.
He pulled on a pair of shorts and padded out. The apartment was silent, save for the low hum of the refrigerator.
She was in the kitchen. Fully dressed in a simple blouse and slacks, her hair neatly tied back. She stood at the counter, measuring coffee grounds with a concentration usually reserved for lab work. The mechanical click-click of the spoon against the ceramic was the only sound.
He hovered in the doorway. “Hey.”
Her shoulders stiffened. She didn’t turn. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
“Choso-nee.”
“You should get dressed. You’ll be late.” Her voice was flat, carefully sanded of any emotion.
The distance in the room was a canyon. Last night, in the dark of his room, there had been no space at all. Their hands had been shy, then sure, learning the landscape of each other with a reverence that felt like prayer. He had kissed every scar, every mole, the inside of her elbow, the delicate bones of her ankles. She had traced the lines of his shoulders, his back, her touches feather-light and wondering. They had slept tangled, her head on his chest.
Now, she was pouring boiling water into the French press as if performing a sacred rite.
“Look at me,” he said, the words scraping his throat.
She poured the water in a slow spiral. “There’s nothing to look at. It was a mistake. We were… overwhelmed. It ends now.” The plunger went down with a soft hiss.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” She finally turned, mug in hand. Her eyes were focused somewhere past his left ear. “Here. Drink this and go take a shower. We’ll… we’ll have breakfast. Like normal.”
He stepped forward. She didn’t retreat, but she flinched, a tiny tremor running through the hand holding the mug. Coffee sloshed over the rim, burning her fingers. She didn’t seem to notice.
He took the mug from her. Set it on the counter with a dull thunk. He reached for her hand, the one scalded by coffee, and brought it to his mouth. He kissed the reddening skin.
A sharp intake of breath.
He cupped her face then, forcing her to meet his eyes. Her resolve was a brittle shell, and he watched it fracture in real time. Her lower lip trembled. The practiced blankness in her gaze dissolved into a turmoil of shame and want and sheer, debilitating fear.
“You’re lying,” he whispered, his thumb stroking her cheekbone.
“We can’t,” she pleaded, but her hands came up to clutch his wrists, holding him there. “Yuji, it’s wrong. Everyone would—”
“No one is here,” he said, leaning in until their foreheads touched. “It’s just us. It’s only ever been just us.”
He felt the fight leave her in a long, shuddering sigh. Her eyes closed. She nodded, once, a tiny, defeated motion.
He led her by the hand back to his room. The dawn light was stronger now, illuminating the dust in the air, the chaotic tumble of the bedsheets. It felt like returning to a crime scene.
They stood beside the bed. This time, there was no frantic energy, no steam to hide in. There was just the quiet, and the truth of what they were about to do in the clear morning light.
She reached for the hem of her blouse. He stopped her. “Let me.”
He undressed her slowly, button by button. She stood passively, watching his hands work. When the blouse slipped from her shoulders, she crossed her arms over her chest, a last instinct of modesty. He gently uncrossed them, letting them fall to her sides.
He knelt to help her out of her slacks, his fingers brushing the insides of her calves. She stepped out of them, standing before him in just her plain cotton underwear. He didn’t remove them yet. He pressed his face against her stomach, wrapping his arms around her hips, just holding on.
“You feel like home,” he mumbled into her skin.
She carded her fingers through his wild pink hair. “This isn’t a home. It’s a secret.”
“Then it’s ours.”
He stood and stripped off his shorts. They faced each other, completely bare. The familiarity from the night before was gone, replaced by a new, raw vulnerability. The daylight showed everything—the flush on her skin, the uncertainty in his eyes, the tragic, beautiful lines of their forbidden connection.
He guided her onto the bed. They lay on their sides, facing each other. He kissed her, slowly, deeply, trying to pour every confusing, ugly, gorgeous feeling into it. Her mouth opened under his, hungry and yielding.
His hand slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, and settled between her thighs. He touched her through the damp cotton, a soft, circular pressure that made her arch against him. A low whine escaped her throat. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and drew them down. She helped him, kicking them off.
He explored her with his fingers, not entering, just learning the slick, hot folds, the way she pulsed under his touch. He watched her face the whole time, memorizing the flutter of her eyelids, the bite of her teeth into her plump lower lip.
“Let me…” he whispered, shifting his body over hers.
He positioned himself above her, his hips cradled between her thighs. He lowered himself, letting his hardness press against her, resting there in the warm, wet friction. He didn’t push. He just rocked, a slow, grinding rhythm that had her digging her heels into the mattress.
“Yuji…” she breathed, her hands clutching at his back.
The sound of his name, choked with pleasure, undid him. He increased the pace, the slap of skin against skin a stark, rhythmic counterpoint to their ragged breathing. He dropped his head to her shoulder, his mouth finding the juncture of her neck. He could feel the frantic beat of her pulse against his lips.
It was too much. The sensation, the sight of her beneath him, the crushing weight of his love and his sin. His control shattered.
With a broken groan, he pulled back at the last possible second. He spent himself against her stomach, hot stripes painting her pale skin. The force of it left him shuddering, collapsed half on top of her.
For a minute, there was only the sound of their lungs fighting for air.
Then, softly, she began to cry. Not the frantic sobs from the bathroom, but a quiet, hopeless seep of tears. He rolled off, gathering her against him. He wiped at her stomach with the corner of the sheet, a clumsy, tender gesture.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she said, her voice thick. “Just… don’t let go yet.”
He held her tighter. The sun was fully up now, a bright, impersonal stripe across the tangled bed. It illuminated the evidence on their bodies, the reality of what they had done. The world outside was waking up. Cars passed on the street below. The neighbor’s dog barked.
Choso stirred. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, a strangely childlike gesture. She looked at the clock on his nightstand. “You really will be late.”
“I don’t care.”
“You have to.” She sat up, pulling the sheet around her. She looked at him, her expression exhausted but clear. “We have to get up. We have to… make breakfast. And you have to go to class.”
“And then what?” he asked, the dread a cold stone in his gut.
She looked away, out the window at the too-bright day. “And then we’ll see.”