Chapter 5: The Walk of Shame (That Isn't)
The first thing he became aware of was weight. A pleasant, solid warmth across his chest and legs. Then the scent of her hair, something citrusy and clean, mixed with the deeper, muskier smell of sex and sleep. Matt opened his eyes. Pale Sunday light cut through the slats of the blinds, painting striped shadows across Akari’s back. She was sprawled half on top of him, one arm flung over his ribs, her face buried against his shoulder. Her breathing was deep and even.
He didn’t move. He traced the line of her spine with his eyes, down to where the sheet tangled around her hips. The memory of last night was not a single memory but a cascade: the taste of wine and her skin, the desperate fumble of buttons, the shocking heat of her mouth on his, the way she’d arched and cried out, a sound he felt in his bones. His body stirred just thinking about it. But the other thoughts came, quieter, persistent. Is she okay? Is this a one-time thing? What do I say? And, more insistently: I am starving.
He must have tensed, because she let out a soft, sleepy murmur and shifted. Her hand slid down his stomach, fingers splaying possessively over his hip. He held his breath. Her eyes fluttered open, dark and unfocused, then cleared as she found his face. A slow, cat-like smile touched her lips.
“You’re awake,” she said, her voice husky with sleep. She didn’t move her hand.
“Yeah.”
“Thinking too loud.” She squeezed his hip, her nails digging in just enough to make him gasp. “I can hear it.”
“Sorry. It’s a habit.”
She pushed herself up on one elbow, letting the sheet fall. The morning light loved her, gilding the curve of her breast, the sharp line of her collarbone. She looked at him, really looked, and he felt utterly seen. The artist, the foreigner, the man still half-hard beside her. There was no performance in it. This was just her, awake.
“I need to pee,” she announced, and rolled off him with a graceless, practical motion. She stood, stretching unabashedly, and padded naked toward the bathroom. He watched the shift of muscle in her thighs, the neat tattoo of a soundwave on her lower back. At the door, she glanced over her shoulder. “Shower after. It’s small. But you can join me if you don’t mind being… compressed.”
The bathroom was indeed a capsule, all steam and white tile. She was already under the spray, water sluicing through her short black hair when he slid the door shut behind him. The space forced closeness; his back was against the cool door, her front was inches from his, beaded with water.
“Here,” she said, and turned him, pushing him gently under the water. She took a bottle, squeezed citrus-scented shampoo into her palm, and began working it into his hair. Her fingers were strong, methodical, digging into his scalp. He groaned, leaning into the touch.
“You have good hands,” he mumbled, eyes closed.
“I know.” She rinsed him, then turned him again. Water ran down his face. She was looking up at him, her expression unreadable. Then she pressed her body flush against his, skin slick and hot under the stream. Her hand went between them, finding him hard, wrapping around his length with a firm, knowing grip. He jerked, his head thunking softly against the tile.
“Akari…”
“You were thinking about this when I woke up,” she said, her thumb circling the head of his cock, spreading the bead of moisture already there. “Weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She rose on her toes, her mouth finding his ear. Her breath was hot. “Then stop thinking.”
She guided him into her with one smooth, insistent motion, her back against the wet tile. He was inside her, deeper than seemed possible in the tight space, and she was so fucking hot and tight he saw stars. She hooked one leg around his hip, anchoring him.
“Move,” she commanded, her voice a raw scrape.
He gripped her ass, lifting her slightly, and began to thrust. It was awkward, frantic, water slapping against them, steam choking the air. Her nails scored his shoulders. Each drive was a jolt of pure, mindless sensation. He could feel every clench of her around him, the way her body milked him with a ruthless, perfect rhythm.
“Fuck, Matt, right there,” she gasped, her head falling back. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”
He was lost in the animal truth of it—the slap of skin, her ragged curses in his ear, the primal need to push deeper, to feel her come apart. He kissed her, a messy clash of teeth and tongue, tasting the water and her. Her hips pistoned against his, meeting him thrust for thrust. The pressure built, a coil in his gut winding to breaking point.
She came first, a sharp, silent convulsion that tightened around him like a vise, her mouth open against his neck in a soundless scream. The sight of her, the feel of her, shattered his last thread of control. He drove into her one last, shuddering time and came with a broken groan, pouring himself into her, his legs trembling with the force of it.
For a long minute, they just stood there, braced against the wall, breathing in the steam. The water began to run cool. He softened, slipping out of her. She slid down until her feet touched the floor, her body leaning heavily into his.
“Well,” she breathed, finally. “That’s one way to get clean.”
He laughed, a shaky, exhausted sound, and rested his forehead against hers.
Later, wrapped in her yukata robes, they stood in her small kitchen. She was scrambling eggs with a fierce concentration, while he sipped bitter, welcome coffee.
“I don’t usually do that,” she said, not looking at him.
“Have breakfast?”
She shot him a look. “Have someone stay over. Or… the shower thing.”
He leaned against the counter. “I’m glad you made an exception.”
She dished the eggs onto two plates, added miso soup and rice. “You’re not… clingy. It’s not exhausting.”
It was the closest to a compliment on his character he’d ever heard from her. He took his plate. “Neither are you.”
They ate at the low kotatsu table, legs tangled underneath. The silence was comfortable, filled with the clink of chopsticks and the distant hum of Tokyo. He felt a strange, profound peace settle over him. This wasn’t a fantasy. It was real. The mess, the quiet, the lingering ache in his muscles, the beautiful, complicated woman scowling at a bit of egg on her robe.
“What are you doing today?” she asked.
“Nothing. You?”
“Nothing.” She poked at her rice. “The new One Piece storyboards come in tomorrow. It will be chaos.”
“So today is the calm before the storm.”
“Something like that.” She looked at him, a flicker of her earlier vulnerability returning. “You could stay. If you want. We could be… calmly unproductive together.”
He reached across the table, his fingers finding hers. “Yeah,” he said. “I want.”
Outside, a train rumbled by, a distant thunder that made the crockery tremble softly on the shelves. Inside, the storm was quiet, for now.
Inside, the storm was quiet, for now. They cleared the dishes in a wordless, comfortable tandem, his shoulder brushing hers at the sink. Afterwards, she flopped onto the worn sofa, grabbing the remote, and he settled beside her, the space between them feeling charged and deliberate.
“Brain needs off,” she declared, clicking through menus. The glow of the screen painted her face in shifting blues. “No thinking about work. No thinking about… anything complicated.”
“Agreed,” Matt said, letting his head fall back against the cushions. He could still smell her citrus shampoo on his own skin.
She found the streaming service and queued up the latest episode of Jujutsu Kaisen. The familiar opening theme filled the small room, a comfortable anchor. They watched in silence for a while, his arm eventually stretching along the back of the couch behind her. She didn’t lean into him, but she didn’t move away either.
During a lull in the action, she muted the TV. “Your thoughts are loud again.”
“Was I thinking?”
“You’re always thinking.” She turned to face him, tucking one leg beneath her. The yukata had loosened, revealing the smooth skin of her thigh and the top of the soundwave tattoo. “What was it?”
He met her gaze. “Just wondering what this is.”
“This?”
“You. Me. This morning. The shower.” He gave a half-shrug, feeling exposed. “The rules.”
Akari studied him, her dark eyes unflinching. She reached out and traced the line of his jaw with a single finger. “Fuck the rules,” she said softly, but there was a tremor in her touch. Then she leaned in and kissed him, a slow, deep exploration that tasted of green tea and unresolved questions.
The kiss unspooled something. The careful calm of the morning shattered. She climbed into his lap, straddling him, the rough fabric of her yukata grinding against the cotton of his borrowed sweatpants. He gripped her hips, pulling her down hard against the erection straining beneath them. A sharp, ragged gasp escaped her.
“No rules,” she whispered against his mouth, her hands fumbling with the knot of his pants. He helped her, shoving the fabric down just enough. She yanked her own robe open, not even bothering to shrug it off her shoulders. She was bare beneath, her small breasts flushed, her skin hot to the touch.
She positioned herself, her hand guiding him, and sank down onto him in one slow, excruciatingly deliberate motion. He cried out, his fingers digging into the flesh of her ass. She was so wet, so impossibly tight, sheathing him completely. She didn’t move at first, just sat there, full of him, her forehead pressed to his, her breath coming in short, sharp puffs.
“Matt,” she breathed, and it sounded like a confession.
Then she began to ride him. It was a different rhythm than the shower’s frantic pace. This was deep, rolling, and controlled, her hips circling and grinding, taking him so deep he felt lightheaded. The only sounds were their skin slapping together, their choked-off moans, and the silent, flashing images of the anime still playing on the screen behind her. The surreal contrast made it more intense, more private.
“Look at me,” he growled, his voice rough. Her eyes snapped open, locked on his. He could see everything in them—need, fear, a wild kind of ownership. “You feel so goddamn good.”
“I know,” she gasped, her composure breaking. “Fuck, I know. Don’t stop talking.”
“You’re fucking perfect. So tight. I can feel you clenching around me, you’re so close.”
Her movements became erratic, desperate. She was chasing it, her body bowing, her nails scratching at his neck. He let one hand slide between them, his thumb finding her clit. She jerked, a broken sound tearing from her throat.
“Come on,” he urged, rubbing tight, fast circles. “Come on my cock, Akari. Let me feel it.”
She shattered with a raw, unpretty cry, her inner muscles clamping down on him in violent, rhythmic pulses. The sight of her coming undone, her head thrown back, her body convulsing in his lap, was what undid him. He held her hips down, driving up into her as his own orgasm ripped through him, a white-hot flood that left him shuddering and spent.
For a long time, the only sound was the frantic beating of their hearts. The unmuted TV now showed a cheerful commercial for coffee. She slumped forward against his chest, a damp, trembling weight. He could feel her heart hammering against his.
Eventually, she shifted, wincing as he slipped out of her. She curled into his side, pulling her robe closed but not bothering to tie it. He tucked a strand of sweaty hair behind her ear.
On screen, the next episode in the queue began to auto-play. The opening scenes of Spy x Family filled the room with its whimsical soundtrack. Neither of them moved to stop it.
“So,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “No rules.”
“No rules,” he echoed, his hand stroking her back.
They watched the show, the absurd espionage antics a bright, colorful counterpoint to the heavy, sweating reality of their bodies. Her breathing evened out. His own muscles began to unknot. The narrative on screen was simple, clear-cut: a mission, a fake family, defined goals. Their own story had no such outline, and the terrifying, thrilling freedom of that hung in the air between them, as palpable as the scent of sex and the glow of the television.
Their own story had no such outline, and the terrifying, thrilling freedom of that hung in the air between them, as palpable as the scent of sex and the glow of the television. The anime played on, a cheerful soundtrack at odds with the quiet gravity settling in the room. Akari finally untangled herself, retying her robe with a definitive tug.
“I need actual food,” she said, her voice regaining its usual pragmatic edge. “Not just eggs.”
They ordered delivery takoyaki from a place down the street, the greasy, fragrant balls arriving in a cardboard box. They ate with their fingers, burning their tongues, licking the salty sauce and bonito flakes from their thumbs. The mundane act was a anchor. He told her about a frustrating sequence he was animating, the particular challenge of drawing convincing motion blur. She listened, then described a session editing fight sounds, the visceral crunch she’d created by recording herself stomping on a head of cabbage.
“It’s weirdly satisfying,” she said, a genuine grin touching her lips. “Destroying vegetables for a living.”
The afternoon sun shifted, painting the clutter of her apartment in long, golden bars. He felt the hours stretching, elastic and precious. He was due nowhere. The simple reality of her presence, the way her foot occasionally sought his under the kotatsu, was a drug. The earlier intensity had banked to a low, steady hum.
It flared again in the dusty light by her bookshelf. He was examining her vinyl collection, pulling out a rare soundtrack press. She came up behind him, her body not touching his, but he felt the heat of her.
“That one’s a bootleg,” she said, her breath near his ear.
He turned. Her gaze was direct, hungry again. She took the record from his hands and placed it carefully on the shelf. Then she pushed him back against the spines of her art books, her mouth finding his with a sudden, consuming urgency. There was no prelude, no slow burn. It was a spark hitting dry tinder.
Her hands went to the drawstring of his sweatpants, yanking them down his hips. His cock sprang free, already fully hard. She dropped to her knees on the faded rug.
“Akari—”
She didn’t answer with words. She took him into her mouth, deep and slow, her tongue flattening against the sensitive underside. He groaned, his head thudding back against the shelf. Her technique was not gentle; it was demanding, a claiming. She used her hand to fist the base, her mouth working the head, sucking hard, her other hand cupping and squeezing his balls.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his fingers tangling in her short hair. She looked up, her dark eyes holding his as she took him deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate him. The visual was obscene, devastating. The talented, sharp-tongued woman on her knees, her lips stretched around him, a thin strand of spit glistening. She moaned around his length, the vibration tearing a ragged cry from him.
She pulled off with a wet pop. “I want you to fuck me from behind,” she said, her voice gruff. “Here. Now.”
She turned, bracing her hands on a lower shelf, her robe falling open. She presented herself to him, the curve of her ass, the damp, glistening folds between her legs. He stepped out of his pants, his hands shaking as he gripped her hips. He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against her entrance. She was soaking wet.
He pushed in, a single, relentless stroke that buried him to the hilt. She cried out, a sharp, guttural sound, her knuckles white on the shelf. He didn’t wait, couldn’t wait. He set a brutal, driving pace, each thrust slamming her into the books, making the shelves rattle. The sound was filthy, a slick, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, punctuated by their choked breaths.
“Harder,” she grunted, pushing back against him. “Don’t you fucking hold back.”
He obeyed, his vision blurring, every nerve ending focused on the hot, tight clutch of her body. One hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. She was swollen, throbbing. He rubbed it in frantic circles, matching the punishing rhythm of his hips.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice tight and strained.
“Come on my cock,” he growled, his own release coiling, imminent. “Let me feel you come.”
Her body seized, a series of violent, internal spasms that milked him relentlessly. The sound she made was raw, unmodulated, utterly hers. It shattered his control. With three final, deep lunges, he erupted inside her, a hot, pulsing flood that left him weak and gasping, slumped over her back.
They stayed like that, joined, panting, for a long minute. The apartment was silent except for their breathing. A train passed, its distant rumble vibrating through the floorboards.
Slowly, he pulled out. She straightened with a wince, pulling her robe closed. The digital clock on her sound mixer glowed 2:47 PM.
A subtle shift occurred. The languid haze of the day sharpened into the practicalities of departure. He used her bathroom, splashing water on his face. His clothes, scattered from the night before and the morning’s iterations, felt like artifacts from a different life as he put them back on. She dressed in loose jeans and a thin sweater, her professional armor reassembling.
At the genkan, he struggled with his sneakers. She leaned against the wall, watching him. The afternoon light from the small window cut across her face.
“So,” she said. Her voice was quiet, almost casual, but her posture was rigid. “At work. It’s probably best if we keep this… quiet.”
He straightened, one shoe on. He’d expected it, yet the words still landed with a dull weight. The ‘no rules’ had a boundary after all.
“The studio gossip mill is a toxic little ecosystem,” she continued, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t need my sound mix critiqued by some asshole who’s just wondering if I’m sleeping with the foreign animator.”
He nodded slowly. He understood the politics, her hard-won respect. “Okay.”
She finally looked at him, searching his face for resentment or deceit. “Just okay?”
“Yeah, Akari. Okay.” He offered a small, genuine smile. “It’s no one’s business but ours.”
The tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. A ghost of her earlier smile returned. She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. She reached up, her hand cool against his cheek, and pulled him down for a kiss. It was soft, lingering, a stark contrast to the day’s raw hunger. It tasted like goodbye and a secret promise.
“Good,” she whispered against his lips.
He pulled away, opened the door, and stepped out into the bright, anonymous hallway. The door clicked shut behind him, a soft, final sound. He stood there for a moment, the taste of her still on his tongue, the smell of her apartment on his clothes. Then he turned and headed for the stairs, for the train, for the lonely shape of his own apartment, carrying the quiet, thrilling weight of their secret with him.