Chapter 35: A Soldier's Farewell
The scent of yeast and polished oak was usually a comfort. This morning, it felt thin. Taichi ran a cloth along the curve of a freshly rinsed tankard, his movements automatic. The hearth held a single, stubborn ember, breathing faint orange light onto the stone. He’d been up for hours, the memory of warm skin and tangled sheets a ghost his body wouldn’t let him forget.
The door opened, not with the crash of a patron, but with the solid, weighted swing of someone who entered spaces expecting to own them. A draft of cold, dawn air swept in, carrying the scent of frost, steel oil, and pine.
Taichi didn’t need to look up. His spine stiffened, his fingers tightening on the tankard.
Yamato stood just inside the threshold, backlit by the grey morning. His plate armor, usually gleaming, was dulled from recent travel, scuffed and serious. He’d come straight from the barracks, then. His sword was at his hip, his helm tucked under one arm. The easy charm was still there in the quirk of his mouth, but his blue eyes were the sharp, assessing shade Taichi had come to recognize as his ‘knight’ look.
“You’re early,” Taichi said, turning back to his glasses. “We open at eleven. Even knights of the realm have to wait.”
“I’m not here for a drink.” Yamato’s voice was quieter than usual, cutting through the empty tavern’s silence. His boots were loud on the floorboards as he approached the bar.
Taichi finally glanced at him. The armor made him look larger, more implacable. A stranger, almost. “What, then? Come to admire my polishing technique?”
“Border patrol,” Yamato said. He set his helm on the bar with a soft thunk. “Up near the Blackroot pass. Leaves within the hour. I’ll be gone a week.”
The cloth in Taichi’s hand stilled. A week. It was nothing. A blink. He’d gone years without seeing the alpha. This was nothing. He forced a scoff, turning to hang the tankard on the overhead rack. “Well, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure the frontiers are trembling in anticipation.”
“Taichi.”
“What?” He turned, irritation sparking. “You want a farewell kiss? A embroidered handkerchief? Go do your job. I’ve got a tavern to run.”
He moved to walk past him, toward the cellar door, needing to check the fermentation locks. An escape. Yamato moved faster. In three long strides, he was in front of him, blocking his path. The cool, metallic scent of his armor mixed with the warm, living scent of him underneath. It was disorienting.
“Look at me,” Yamato said, not a request.
Taichi glared up, his jaw set. “Satisfied?”
Instead of answering, Yamato raised a hand. His gauntlet was cold when he cupped Taichi’s jaw, the unyielding metal a stark contrast to the gentle pressure of his thumb on his cheekbone. Taichi’s breath caught.
Then Yamato kissed him.
It wasn’t like the kisses in the attic—playful, heated, exploratory. This was hard. A press of possession, a seal. A promise and a threat rolled into one. Taichi could taste the morning mint on his tongue, feel the faint scratch of stubble. He didn’t yield, but his hands came up, fingers splaying against the cold, intricate engraving on Yamato’s breastplate. To push him away or hold on, he couldn’t tell.
When Yamato pulled back, his eyes were dark, the seriousness in them completely undiluted. His thumb traced the line of Taichi’s jaw, down to his chin. “I’ll be back,” he murmured, the words a low vibration between them, “before you can even start to miss me.”
Taichi’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. He summoned every ounce of sarcasm he owned. “Arrogant prick. I’ve already forgotten your name.”
The smile that touched Yamato’s lips was real, if fleeting. “Liar.” He leaned in, his lips brushing Taichi’s ear, his voice a whisper only for him. “The mead in the third cask from the left is starting to turn. Rack it today.”
Then he was stepping back, retrieving his helm. The moment broke. The armor was just armor again, the knight just a knight with a duty.
“A week,” Yamato said, nodding once, as if confirming it to himself.
“Don’t get stabbed,” Taichi said, the words coming out flat. “It’s hell on the flooring.”
Yamato’s laugh was short, genuine. He turned and walked to the door. He didn’t look back. The heavy oak door swung shut behind him, sealing with a final, hollow sound.
Silence rushed back in, thicker than before.
Taichi stood frozen, the spot on his jaw where the cold gauntlet had rested still tingling. The scent of steel and pine lingered in the air, slowly being overtaken by the smells of wood and malt. He looked at the door, then down at his own hands. The simple wooden ring—Yamato’s rough, carved answer to a promise Taichi hadn’t even asked for—seemed suddenly very heavy on his finger.
A week.
He lifted a hand, pressing his palm flat against the center of his chest, as if he could calm the erratic beating there. The ember in the hearth finally surrendered, fading to grey ash. The tavern felt too large, too quiet, the morning light through the stained glass suddenly cold and distant.
He had a cask to attend to. The third from the left.
He moved, the routine of work a familiar pull. But his gaze drifted back to the door, and for a long, quiet moment, he simply stared at the space where the alpha had stood, the knight’s final order—a brewmaster’s advice—echoing in the empty room.