Chapter 28: The Morning After
The first thing Taichi became aware of was the weight. A solid, warm heaviness across his ribs, an arm anchoring him in place. The second was the ache—a deep, pleasant throb between his thighs, a lingering fullness that spoke of the night’s activities in a language more eloquent than words. The third was the scent. His own spiced-honey pheromones were subdued now, tangled inextricably with Yamato’s pine-and-storm, creating a unique, comforting aroma that clung to the sheets and their skin.
Dawnlight, pale and tentative, seeped around the edges of the curtains, striping the rumpled quilt and the dusty oak floorboards. The attic room was quiet, the tavern below silent for the first time since he’d bought the place. Only the distant, melodic call of a market cart hawker from the lane broke the stillness.
He was on his side, Yamato’s broad chest a furnace against his back. They were no longer locked together; the knot had subsided hours ago. But Yamato had obviously not moved, his body curled around Taichi’s like a protective shell. His breathing was a slow, steady rhythm against the back of Taichi’s neck.
Taichi shifted minutely, wincing at the specific soreness in his muscles. The movement caused Yamato’s arm to tighten, his hand splaying possessively over Taichi’s stomach. A low, sleep-rough hum vibrated against his spine.
“Morning,” Yamato murmured, the word muffled against Taichi’s shoulder. His lips brushed the skin there, a soft, unconscious kiss.
Taichi grunted. His throat felt raw. From the screaming, he recalled with a flush that had nothing to do with warmth. He cleared it. “Is it?”
“Mmm. Just.” Yamato nuzzled into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. “You smell like me.”
There was a stark, satisfied alpha pride in the statement that should have rankled. Instead, Taichi felt a bizarre, curling sense of satisfaction in his own gut. He stamped it down. “I smell like sweat and dried slick. So do you. It’s revolting.”
Yamato chuckled, the sound reverberating through both of them. “Liar.” He pressed another kiss, this one more deliberate, to the prominent knob of Taichi’s shoulder. “How do you feel?”
“Like I got trampled by a draft horse. Then used as a practice dummy for a battering ram.”
The arm around him loosened slightly. “Taichi…” The lazy warmth in Yamato’s voice shifted into something more alert, edged with concern.
“I’m fine,” Taichi interrupted, sharper than he intended. He was fine. More than fine, which was the terrifying part. The soreness was a testament, a physical memory that felt more real than any dream. He focused on the practical. “I need to get up. The delivery from the maltster is due before seventh bell, and I have to check the fermentation on the summerbatch.”
He made to sit up, but Yamato’s arm became an immovable band of muscle. “It can wait an hour.”
“It can’t.”
“It can.” Yamato’s voice softened, losing its teasing edge. “Stay. Just for a minute.”
The genuine request, stripped of all alpha demand and knightly swagger, disarmed him. Taichi stopped struggling, letting himself sink back into the pillow and the encompassing heat of the other man. The silence stretched, comfortable, filled with the gradual brightening of the room.
Yamato’s fingers began tracing idle, gentle circles on Taichi’s abdomen. “Last night…” he started, then paused, as if choosing his words with uncharacteristic care. “It wasn’t just a night for me.”
Here it comes, Taichi thought. The declaration. The flowery speech about destiny and fated mates. He braced himself, his shoulders tensing under Yamato’s arm.
“I want to court you.”
The words were simple. Direct. No embellishment.
Taichi blinked at the sun-streaked wall. “Court me,” he repeated flatly.
“Yes. Properly. Not just showing up at your bar and annoying you until you let me buy you a drink.” Yamato’s fingers stilled. “I want to take you to the Midsummer Faire. I want to bring you wood for your carvings that isn’t just scrap from the barracks. I want to…” He huffed a quiet breath, his confidence seemingly faltering. “I want to do this right.”
Taichi’s heart was doing something ridiculous and frantic against his ribs. He rolled onto his back, forcing Yamato’s arm to adjust, so he could look up at him. The alpha was propped on one elbow, his golden hair a messy halo, his blue eyes serious and watchful. The dawn light caught the silver lines of his scars, making them look like ancient, elegant inscriptions.
“Why?” The question shot out of Taichi, defensive and raw. “Because you knotted me? Because we fucked? That doesn’t mean you have to—“
“It’s not about obligation,” Yamato cut in, his gaze unwavering. “It’s about last week, when you spent twenty minutes explaining the difference between peat-smoked and oak-smoked barley until I actually understood it. It’s about the way you threaten to ban customers for putting their feet on the stools, but you always save the heel of the bread for old man Hewitt’s dog. It’s about the fact that you built this place with your own hands and you look at it like it’s the whole damn world.” He reached out, brushing a strand of messy brown hair from Taichi’s forehead. His touch was startlingly tender. “The fucking… that was incredible. That was a wildfire. But I was already smoldering.”
Taichi stared at him. His sharp tongue, his ready arsenal of retorts, had deserted him. He felt exposed, more than he had naked. This wasn’t a challenge to his independence; it was a recognition of it. Yamato had been watching, actually seeing him. The realization was a seismic shift in the bedrock of his solitary life.
He looked away, focusing on a knot in the wooden beam above them. The familiar urge to deflect, to push him away with a biting remark, rose in his throat. Courting is for nobles with too much time. I have a business to run. You’ll get bored.
But the words wouldn’t come. The memory of Yamato’s mouth on his skin, the sound of his own laughter mingling with Yamato’s over a shared joke weeks ago, the solid, unshakeable presence of him now in this bed—it all formed a weight that silenced his habitual defenses.
He felt Yamato waiting, the quiet anxiety leaking into his usually confident scent.
Finally, Taichi let out a long, slow breath. He turned his head back, meeting those piercing blue eyes. A reluctant, faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, so unfamiliar it felt like using a new muscle.
“The Midsummer Faire is a commercial nightmare. Overpriced, crowded, and the gingerbread is always stale.”
Yamato’s eyes lit with a cautious, hopeful light. “I’ll buy you two, so you can complain twice as much.”
“And I’m very particular about my wood. No green timber. It warps.”
“I’ll consult with the royal carpenter,” Yamato said, a real smile now spreading across his face.
Taichi held his gaze, the smile on his own lips growing less reluctant, more real. He reached up, his fingers tracing the long, roped scar on Yamato’s chest—the one he’d mapped in the dark. “You’re going to be a huge distraction.”
Yamato captured his hand, lacing their fingers together and bringing them to his lips. He kissed Taichi’s knuckles, his eyes never leaving the omega’s. “That’s the plan.”
“Fine,” Taichi said, the word quiet but clear in the sunlit room. “We’ll see where it goes.”
The words were a concession, but they felt, strangely, like a victory. Yamato’s expression softened into something unbearably fond. He leaned down and kissed him, not with the desperate heat of the night before, but with a sweet, lingering promise that tasted of a shared morning and a tentative, uncharted future.
Outside, the sounds of the waking city grew louder. The maltster’s cart would be here soon. The summerbatch needed checking. But for now, Taichi closed his eyes and let the hour wait.