Chapter 12: A Stubborn Seedling
The following afternoon brought a sharp, clean wind down from the northern hills, scouring the valley and setting the tavern’s swinging sign to creaking on its iron hinges. Taichi was out front, sweeping yesterday’s tracked-in mud and the dry, fallen leaves from the stone steps. The rhythmic swish-scrape of the bristles was a meditation, one that let him ignore the faint, persistent cinnamon-and-oak scent of his own omega pheromones on the breeze—a biological billboard he’d long since learned to treat with resigned irritation.
He didn’t look up at the heavy footfalls on the path.He knew the weight of that stride.
“You’re early,” Taichi said, not pausing in his work. “We don’t open for another three hours. If you’re here to loiter and look pretty, find a different bench.”
Yamato’s shadow fell across the swept stones. He wasn’t in his knight’s regalia today, but simple dun-colored trousers and a linen shirt that strained across his shoulders. In his hands was a small, unglazed clay pot. “I’m not here to drink,” he said, his voice calm against Taichi’s bristle.
Taichi finally stopped, leaning on the broom.His eyes went from Yamato’s earnest face to the pot. Inside, a tiny, spindly hawthorn sapling stood bravely, its few leaves a vibrant green against the rough earth. “What is that?”
“A successor.”
“A what?”
Yamato didn’t answer. He moved past Taichi, his movement deliberate but not threatening, and knelt on the hard-packed earth beside the tavern’s foundation, right near where the step met the wall. He set the pot down and began digging with his bare hands, fingers tearing through the cool soil.Taichi watched, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.“Have you lost your mind? You can’t just plant things on my property.”
“It’s not just a thing.” Yamato’s hands worked carefully, enlarging the hole. Dirt darkened his fingernails, clung to the fine hairs on his wrists.“Flowers die in a jug. They’re a moment. This,” he said, gently tipping the sapling from its pot, cradling the root ball, “this takes root.It grows. It endures storms.” He placed the slender trunk into the earth, his touch reverent. “Like my intentions.”
The wind chose that moment to die.The silence was sudden and profound.
Taichi felt the words land somewhere deep in his gut, a heavy, warm weight.He fought it.He always fought it. “Your intentions are as stubborn as a weed,” he muttered, but the heat had left his voice. It sounded hollow, even to him.Yamato looked up, kneeling there in the dirt. His golden hair fell across his forehead, and his blue eyes were utterly unguarded, stripped of all alpha bravado. In that moment, he wasn’t a knight; he was just a man, offering something vulnerable and alive.“Let it be a weed, then.A persistent one. Right here where you have to see it every day.”
A complicated twist of emotions—affection, fear, sheer annoyance—choked Taichi.He couldn’t stand the raw sincerity. It was more disarming than any flirtation. To break the tension, he took a step forward and, with the side of his boot, roughly scraped a pile of loose dirt over the newly set roots.“There. It’ll probably die anyway. This spot doesn’t get enough sun.”
Yamato simply pressed the soil down firmly around the base with his palms, then stood, wiping his hands on his trousers.A smudge of earth remained on his cheekbone. “I’ll take that chance.” He held Taichi’s gaze for a beat too long, then gave a small, almost shy nod. “I’ll see you tonight, Taichi.”
He turned and walked back up the path, his broad back soon disappearing around the bend.
Taichi stood frozen on his clean steps, the broom still in his hand. The little sapling looked absurdly small and fragile against the weathered stone of his tavern.A declaration in dirt.Stupid.Reckless.Hopeful.
He cursed under his breath, a sharp, fluid expletive.
After a full minute, he stomped back inside, letting the door slam behind him.The hearth fire crackled. The clay jug with the wilting bouquet still sat on the bar, the hawthorn blossoms beginning to brown at the edges. He stared at it, then grabbed the wooden bucket he used for washing tankards. It was half-full of cool, clean water.
He yanked the door open again, marched over to the pathetic little sapling, and glared at it as if it had personally offended him. “Don’t get used to this,” he grumbled to the empty air.
Then, with a swift, decisive motion, he upended the bucket. A generous cascade of water splashed over the roots, darkening the soil to a rich, deep brown. It pooled for a second before seeping away, leaving the tiny leaves beaded with droplets that caught the afternoon light.
He stood there, empty bucket dangling from his hand, watching the water disappear into the earth. A slow, reluctant warmth unfolded in his chest, soft and terrifying.He couldn’t name it.He didn’t want to.
From the forest edge, unseen, Yamato watched the silhouette of the omega against the stone wall, the careful, defiant act of watering.A smile, genuine and quiet, touched his lips. He turned and finally walked away, the taste of future hope bright on his tongue.