Chapter 20: A Kiss on the Bartop
The ghost of the kiss haunted him all day. Taichi caught himself staring at his palm while counting kegs, feeling a phantom warmth when he handed a patron their change, jerking his hand back as if burned.It was infuriating. He was a man who dealt in tangible things: grain yields, yeast viability, the solid heft of a full coin purse.Not this lingering, spectral sensation that buzzed under his skin and messed with his focus.
He prepared for the evening expecting an absence.A tactical retreat. Yamato, proud alpha knight, humiliated, licking his wounds somewhere else.The thought should have brought relief. Instead, the tavern felt oddly… flat.The chatter of customers was just noise. The glow from the hearth was just heat.He told himself it was just the residual lack of sleep.
Then, an hour before last call, the door opened.The cool night air swept in, followed by the solid, familiar silhouette. Yamato.He didn’t swagger.He didn’t scan the room for attention. He simply nodded to a couple of regulars and took his usual seat at the far end of the bar, his back to the wall.Taichi’s heart did a stupid, lurching thing. He clenched the rag in his hand and turned to fiddle with the bottles under the counter, buying time.
When he straightened, Yamato was just sitting there.No teasing smile.No arched eyebrow. He’d ordered nothing.His hands, scarred and capable, rested flat on the polished oak. He was just… present.
Taichi served the other patrons, poured ales, laughed at jokes he didn’t hear. His awareness was a narrow, hyper-focused tunnel leading straight to that quiet figure at the end of the bar. The low, earthy, winter-pine scent of an unmoved alpha was a constant undertow in the richer current of the tavern’s smells.
After last call, after the final stragglers were nudged out into the dark with gentle, firm reminders, Taichi slid the bolt home.The silence this time was expectant. He turned, and Yamato was still there.But he’d finally ordered something. A single, clear mug of water sat in front of him, half-drunk.
Taichi grabbed a clean rag and started wiping down the bar, methodically working his way from the door toward Yamato. He scrubbed at imaginary stains, his movements sharp. The scent of his own simmering frustration—burnt sugar and woodsmoke—began to permeate the air.He stopped a few feet away, finally looking at him. “You gonna drink that all night? Because I’d like to get the glass cleaned and go home.”
Yamato met his gaze. The raw devastation from the night before was gone, replaced by a deep, weary calm. “It’s just water.”
“I have eyes.” Taichi snapped the rag against the wood.“What do you want, Yamato?You came back. You’re sitting there. Say what you came to say so we can stop this… whatever this is.”
Yamato looked down at his water, watching the firelight refract through it. “I didn’t come to say anything.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m not here to plead.I’m not here to seduce you.” He lifted his eyes again. They were clear, honest, stripped of all strategy. “I just wanted to be near you.”
The words, so simple and direct, hit Taichi like a physical blow, knocking the angry wind right out of him. All his prepared retorts, his defenses, crumbled into dust. He just stood there, the rag limp in his hand, the sharp scent of his anger dissolving into a confused, softer cloud of sweet cedar.“Why?” The word slipped out, small and genuine.
Yamato’s lips quirked, not in a smile, but in a gesture of pure self-awareness. “Because it helps.The ache.It doesn’t go away, but it… settles. Just being in the same room.Hearing you curse at a stuck barrel tap. Smelling your damned beer.” He finally picked up the mug, took a slow sip of water, and set it down. “I told you I’d wait.This is me waiting.”
Taichi’s throat felt tight. He looked away, staring at the dying flames in the hearth.The fight was gone. The air between them wasn’t charged with tension anymore; it was thick with something heavier, more vulnerable.
“You’re an idiot,” Taichi mumbled, but there was no heat left in it.
“I know.”
A soft, half-disbelieving laugh escaped Taichi. He ran a hand through his messy hair.“A knight of the realm.Sitting in a tavern. Drinking water.”
“The finest water in the kingdom,” Yamato said, the ghost of his old charm flickering. “Served by the most frustratingly beautiful omega I’ve ever met.”
“Shut up.” Taichi’s retort was automatic, but his voice was warm. He finished wiping the space between them, his movements slower now, less frantic. He was close enough to see the faint stubble along Yamato’s jaw, the pale line of an old scar near his temple. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.
He went to move past him to clean the next section, but Yamato’s hand came up.Not grabbing, not demanding. Just a gentle, open-palmed stop against his arm.Taichi froze.Yamato stood. The difference in their height was suddenly profound, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like a dominance play. It just felt like a fact. He looked down at Taichi, his blue eyes searching his face.“Can I…”
Taichi didn’t let him finish. He didn’t know what he was going to say, and he didn’t want to hear it.He just acted. He closed the last inch between them, his hands coming up to fist in the front of Yamato’s simple linen tunic, and he pulled him down.Their mouths met.
It wasn’t fierce or claiming.It was slow.A careful, searching press of lips. A question and an answer all at once. Yamato made a low, choked sound in his throat, a mixture of relief and pure feeling. One of his hands came up to cradle Taichi’s jaw, his thumb stroking his cheekbone.The other settled firmly on his hip, anchoring him.
The taste was water and him, clean and solid. Taichi’s senses flooded with it—the familiar pine-crisp scent deepening, warming, wrapping around his own rising sweetness. He whimpered into the kiss, his fingers tightening in the fabric.Then Yamato moved. His hands slid down, one beneath Taichi’s thigh, the other arm curling around his back. With an effortless, terrifying ease, he lifted Taichi and set him down on the clean, polished bartop. The world tilted. Taichi’s legs instinctively wrapped around Yamato’s waist, pulling their bodies flush. The hard line of Yamato’s arousal pressed against him, and Taichi gasped, breaking the kiss to drag in a sharp breath.Yamato didn’t let him go far. He chased his mouth, his kiss turning deeper, hungrier. His tongue swept in, and Taichi met it with his own, a shudder running through him. One of Yamato’s hands splayed across his lower back, the other moving up, under the hem of his shirt. The warmth of that rough, calloused palm against the bare skin of his stomach was electric.
Taichi’s head swam. The bar was cool beneath him, Yamato was hot and solid against him, and the sensation was too much, too fast, too good. The sharp, wanting scent of an omega in need began to pour off him, dark and sweet like spiced honey.
Yamato’s hand slid higher, skimming his ribs, drifting towards his chest. The intention was clear, the touch reverent but intent.And Taichi’s stubborn, independent core ignited.
He tore his mouth away with a ragged gasp. He brought a hand up, planting his palm flat against Yamato’s sternum, pushing back just enough to create a sliver of space between their bodies.
“Wait.”
Yamato stopped instantly. His chest heaved under Taichi’s hand, his eyes blown dark with need.He didn’t move, his hand frozen under Taichi’s shirt.
Taichi looked at him, his own breath coming in short pants. His lips felt swollen, his body screaming for more, his omega instincts howling at him to submit, to pull him closer. But he was Taichi, who built this place with his own hands.
“Not,” he breathed out, his voice thick and wrecked with want, “on my counter.”
He felt Yamato’s muscles tense, a flicker of confusion and frustration crossing his face.
Then Taichi’s other hand, still fisted in Yamato’s tunic, clenched tight. He didn’t push him away.He pulled.
He dragged Yamato back in until their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. “Not on my counter,” he repeated, the denial clear. But his legs, still locked around Yamato’s waist, squeezed tighter, his body arching into the solid heat of him, contradicting every word. The pull was stronger than the push.