Chapter 14: The Morning After
The first thing Taichi became aware of was a deep, solid warmth against his cheek. The second was the scent—woodsmoke, the faint, clean musk of alpha, and the underlying, comfortable smell of his own tavern. His brain, sluggish with sleep, catalogued it as safe. Pleasant.
Then he moved. A stiff ache protested in his neck. His eyes flew open.
He was still on the hearth rug, but the world had tilted. His head was pillowed not on the hard floor, but on the firm, unyielding slope of Yamato’s shoulder. Sometime in the deep of the night, he’d slid from a polite lean into a full, seeking curl, his body turned into the alpha’s side. One of Yamato’s arms was draped loosely around his back, not holding, just resting there, a heavy, comforting weight.
The fire was dead, just a pyramid of glowing crimson embers breathing slow heat into the room. A thin, gray dawn light seeped through the cracks in the shutters, painting everything in washed-out tones.
Panic, hot and sharp, shot through his veins. He jerked upright as if scalded, scrambling back so fast his elbow knocked into the empty log basket with a clatter.
The movement woke Yamato. The alpha stirred, a low, rough sound vibrating in his chest. His brilliant blue eyes opened, blinking slowly, still soft with sleep. They focused on Taichi, who was now sitting several feet away, hair sticking up wildly, clothes rumpled, his cheeks flooding with a furious, telltale heat.
A slow, easy smile spread across Yamato’s face. It wasn’t his usual teasing grin. This was something softer, more intimate, warmed by the ember-glow and the shared night. “Good morning,” he murmured, his voice husky with disuse.
“It’s not good,” Taichi snapped, the words coming out too fast, too defensive. He pushed himself to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers with stiff, angry motions. “The storm’s over. You can go. The bridge will be passable now.”
Yamato sat up, stretching his arms over his head with a series of pops and cracks. He watched Taichi’s frantic tidying, the smile not fading. “My shoulder’s gone numb,” he observed casually, as if commenting on the weather.
“Not my problem.” Taichi turned his back, stalking toward the bar. He needed to put solid wood between them. He needed to reclaim his space, his equilibrium. The memory of his own body seeking comfort, clinging to that solid warmth, burned in his mind like a brand. It changed everything. It changed nothing. He refused to let it matter. “You got a dry place to sleep. Debt’s paid. Now get out, I’ve got a tavern to open.”
He heard the rustle of Yamato standing, the quiet thud of his boots on the floorboards. But the alpha didn’t head for the door. Instead, his footsteps moved toward the shuttered front window.
“Looks like it did some damage out there,” Yamato said, his tone shifting to something neutral.
Taichi kept his back turned, busying himself with checking the taps on the ale barrels. “I’ve got shingles to replace. Every time.”
A pause. Then the soft click of the window latch being undone. A sliver of cool, damp morning air sliced into the room, carrying the smell of wet earth and bruised leaves. Taichi tensed, waiting for the sound of the door opening, for Yamato’s departure.
It didn’t come.
“That little tree I planted,” Yamato said, curiosity threading his voice. “The hawthorn. It’s still standing.”
Something in Taichi’s chest gave a peculiar, unexpected twitch. He tried to ignore it. “So?”
“So,” Yamato continued, “the fence post by the road is leaning. The sign for the miller’s down the lane is hanging by one hinge. But that spindly little thing I shoved in the ground is straight as a spear. Roots must have grabbed hold fast.”
Against every instinct of self-preservation, Taichi turned.
Yamato was leaning in the open window, the gray light washing over his profile. He wasn’t looking at Taichi. He was looking outside, a considering expression on his face. His earlier softness was gone, replaced by a simple, observational calm.
Slowly, Taichi walked over. He didn’t stand next to him, but close enough to see. He looked out at the wrecked morning. Puddles like small lakes glittered in the rutted road. Debris was scattered everywhere. And there, right beside the door, was the hawthorn sapling. Its leaves were battered, one small branch was torn, but its slender trunk stood unwavering, grounded in the muddy earth where Yamato had planted it. A ridiculous, stubborn survivor.
A breath left Taichi’s lungs, one he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He felt the ridiculous smile before he could stop it, a small, reluctant tug at the corner of his mouth. It felt foreign on his face.
Yamato glanced sideways, catching it. He didn’t remark on it. He just pushed away from the window frame. “I’ll fix your fence post before I go,” he said, as if it were already decided. “And I’ll let Old Man Henley know about his sign on my way back to the barracks.”
He walked toward the door then, unbolting it. The morning air rushed in, cold and fresh. He paused on the threshold, filling the doorway with his size. He looked back at Taichi, his blue eyes clear and direct, no mockery in them.
“The mead was exceptional last night, Taichi. The company was better.”
Then he was gone, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft, final click.
Taichi stood frozen in the empty, dawn-lit tavern. The ghost of that unwilling smile still lingered on his lips. Outside, he heard the solid thunk of the leaning fence post being wrestled back into place. He didn’t move to watch. He simply stared at the spot where the alpha had stood, the scent of rain and him still lingering in the air, the image of the stubborn, surviving hawthorn etched bright in his mind.