Chapter 10: Meeting the Parents
The truck tires crunched over the gravel driveway, coming to a stop in the deep shadows cast by the old Ishida house. Taichi stared up at it through the passenger window. He’d been here a hundred times as a kid, for sleepovers and study sessions, but it had never looked like this before. It looked like it was listening.
“You ready?” Yamato’s voice was low, his fingers still tight on the steering wheel.
“They’re just your parents, Yama,” Taichi said, forcing a grin. “I’ve known them since I was ten.”
“You know them as my parents,” Yamato corrected quietly. “Not as… what they are. Not as what you are to me now.”
The mark on Taichi’s shoulder, near his collarbone, tingled faintly, a ghost sensation of teeth and possession. He touched it absently through his shirt. “Right.”
The path to the front door was overgrown. The porch light was a dim, fly-specked yellow. Before Yamato could lift a hand to knock, the door swung inward.
Natsuko Ishida stood there, backlit by the warm glow of the hallway. Her silver hair, so like her son’s, was cut in a sharp bob. She took in the sight of them—Yamato’s tense shoulders, Taichi’s attempt at a casual stance—and her eyes, the same ice-blue but infinitely softer, settled on Taichi.
“Finally,” she said, and the word was a sigh of pure relief. She stepped forward, ignoring her son completely, and pulled Taichi into a hug that smelled of lavender and baking flour. It was fierce and encompassing. “You stupid boy,” she muttered into his shoulder. “Letting this one keep you away for so long.”
“Hi, Mrs. Ishida,” Taichi managed, his voice muffled against her cardigan. The familiarity of her, the complete normalcy of the hug, unknotted something tight in his chest.
She released him, holding him at arm’s length, her gaze scanning his face, his neck, lingering for a half-second on the hidden mark. Her expression was a complex map of worry, joy, and maternal scrutiny. Then she turned to Yamato.
“And you.” She swatted his arm. It wasn’t a playful tap. “Months. You couldn’t bring him by for tea? You think I don’t know what happens? You think I don’t worry?” Her voice trembled, just on the edge.
“Mom,” Yamato said, a single, strained word.
“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. Inside, both of you. It’s drafty.” She herded them in, closing the door firmly on the forest night.
The house was exactly as Taichi remembered and yet completely alien. The same faded rug in the hall, the same upright piano. But now he noticed the solidity of the doorframes, the extra bolt locks, the way the curtains were drawn tightly over every window. The air was warm, thick with the scent of stew and the underlying, unmistakable smell of wolf—not like Yamato in his passion, but older, settled, like the scent of a forest trail worn deep by generations.
Hiroshi Ishida appeared in the doorway to the living room. He was a tall man, broader than Yamato, with a close-cropped beard of steel grey. His presence filled the space. He’d always been quiet, stern in a way that made teenage Taichi sit up straight. Now, Taichi saw the power in that stillness. Hiroshi’s eyes, pale and assessing, went to his son first—a silent communication that made Yamato’s jaw tighten—then to Taichi.
“Taichi,” Hiroshi said. His voice was gravel and deep earth.
“Mr. Ishida.” Taichi extended his hand.
Hiroshi took it. His grip was crushing, not to test, but as if making a point of its own strength, of what was now being permitted to touch what was his. The handshake lasted a second too long. “Good to see you well,” Hiroshi said, and the words felt weighted. He released him and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod to Yamato. Approval. Tension bled from Yamato’s frame.
“Come sit,” Natsuko commanded, already bustling toward the kitchen. “I made stew. You’re too thin, Tai-chan. Is he feeding you properly?” This was shot directly at Yamato, who grimaced.
“He eats more than anyone I know, Mom.”
“He needs more protein now,” she said, as if stating a simple fact about the weather. The casualness of it, the sheer domestic weirdness, made Taichi’s head spin.
They sat around the old wooden kitchen table. A stewpot steamed in the center. The scene was so normal it was surreal: the checkered tablecloth, the chipped ceramic bowls. Natsuko piled Taichi’s bowl comically high, her gaze constantly flicking over him.
“So,” she said, settling finally with her own tea. “How are you feeling? Really. Any dizziness? Lethargy after… well.” She waved a hand.
Taichi blinked. “Uh. No. I feel… really good, actually. Stronger.”
Natsuko beamed. “The bond. It stabilizes the human partner. Provides a baseline. Yamato, you’re monitoring his sleep?”
“Mom.”
“I’m just asking!”
“He sleeps fine,” Yamato muttered, staring into his stew. A faint pink tint crept up his neck. Taichi remembered exactly how exhausted and sated he’d been after Yamato had pinned him to the bed, after the feeling of being filled so completely had lulled him into the deepest sleep of his life.
Hiroshi ate in steady, silent bites, watching the exchange. His eyes, when Taichi caught them, were unreadable.
“And work?” Natsuko pressed. “The children at the soccer club don’t… sense anything? React differently?”
“They just think I’m in a good mood,” Taichi said, laughing a little. It sounded strained even to him.
“Good. That’s good.” Natsuko sipped her tea. The silence that followed was heavy. The only sounds were the clink of spoons and the old clock ticking on the wall. Taichi felt the undercurrent in the room, a frequency only they could truly hear. He was sitting at a family dinner, and he was also sitting in the den of predators who were carefully, lovingly, folding him into the pack.
Hiroshi cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him. He looked directly at Taichi. “The first year is the most volatile,” he stated. His voice was calm, but it carried. “The bond is new. The instincts are… fresh. For both of you. Yamato’s control will be tested. Your own reactions will be unpredictable.” He shifted his gaze to his son. “You will not run from it. You will face it here. With us. With him. Is that understood?”
It wasn’t a question. It was an alpha’s decree.
Yamato bowed his head slightly. “Yes.”
“And you, Taichi.” Hiroshi’s pale eyes were back on him. “This life is not just moonlight and passion. It is suspicion. It is secrecy. It is a constant watching of the shadows, because other things watch back. You are marked now. You are family. But that makes you a target, too. Are you prepared for that?”
The warmth of the stew in his belly cooled. Taichi looked at Yamato, who was watching him, anxiety raw in his blue eyes. He thought of the shattered window, the hot breath at the door, the terrifying and exhilarating moment Yamato had carried him to the bed, claiming him not as a beast, but as a man. He thought of twenty-four years of friendship, the solid, unwavering truth of Yamato Ishida in his life.
He met Hiroshi’s gaze and didn’t look away. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A slow, grim smile touched Hiroshi’s lips. He gave another nod. Natsuko reached over and squeezed Taichi’s hand, her own trembling slightly with emotion.
Later, as they were leaving, Natsuko hugged Taichi again at the door. “Come next week,” she insisted. “I’ll make those pork buns you like.” Her whisper was for his ear alone. “He needs you more than he shows. The wild in him… it’s calmer with you near. Thank you for staying.”
On the driveway, Taichi took a deep breath of the cold, clean air. The house behind them felt less like a sentinel and more like a sanctuary.
Yamato was quiet beside him, keys jingling in his hand. “That was… a lot,” he finally said.
“They love you,” Taichi said, bumping his shoulder against Yamato’s. “They’re just… intense about it.”
“They love you,” Yamato corrected. He opened the passenger door for Taichi, his hand lingering on Taichi’s back. “You heard my dad. It’s not going to be easy.”
Taichi slid into the seat, looking up at him. The porch light caught the silver in Yamato’s hair, made his eyes gleam. “Nothing ever is with you,” Taichi said, a real smile finally breaking through. “Since when did I ever choose the easy way?”
Yamato leaned in, just for a moment, and pressed his forehead against Taichi’s. A soft, wolfish gesture of affection. When he pulled back, his eyes held a quiet ferocity, a promise. “Never.”
As the truck’s headlights cut through the dark, painting the road ahead in stark relief, Hiroshi stood at the living room window, watching the red tail lights disappear. Natsuko came to stand beside him, slipping her hand into his.
“He’s strong,” Hiroshi murmured.
“He’s perfect for him,” Natsuko replied.
Hiroshi’s hand tightened around hers. “The wild knows its own. Let’s hope it’s enough.”