Rain had begun to fall in slow, deliberate drops over Kyoto. The narrow alley behind the inn was quiet except for the hush of water streaming down old wooden eaves. Yumi stood at the back entrance, the hem of her yukata brushing her bare ankles, toes curling on the wet stone. Her husband would be home in less than two hours, and still, she lingered.
Inside the small tatami room upstairs, the air was warmer, scented faintly with incense and the trace of sweat. Her lover lay half-naked on the futon, head resting lazily against the wall, cigarette smoke curling around his jawline. His name was Kazuo—her husband’s former colleague. Much younger. Dangerous in the way quiet men sometimes are.
Yumi shut the sliding door behind her.
“You’re early,” he said, eyes half-lidded.
“You left it unlocked again,” she whispered, voice dry.
He didn’t apologize. He never did. That was part of the draw.
She knelt beside him, her knees folding neatly, the practiced posture of a wife raised on quiet obedience. But here, she wasn’t obedient. Her hands moved slowly, deliberately. The sash of her yukata whispered as it came undone. Pale fabric slipped away from her shoulders, revealing the delicate slope of her back, the faint red mark from where her husband’s hands had gripped her too tightly just last night. She didn’t flinch.
Kazuo’s eyes traveled over her without hesitation. “You’ll be late getting back,” he said.
“I want to be late.”
She crawled over him, her breath brushing his collarbone, her lips pressing into his throat with a kind of suppressed hunger—silent, almost reverent. Her hips straddled his lap, the soft rustle of cloth against bare skin punctuated by the low groan he gave when she leaned down, speaking directly into his ear.
“I can still taste you from last time.”
A sharp intake of breath was his only answer. His hands found her waist, pulling her down against him. The thin layer of silk did nothing to hide the heat between them. He pushed it aside impatiently, letting the fabric fall away completely.
Outside, thunder rumbled like a distant growl.
Yumi had not always been this way. Two years ago, she was the image of demure elegance—loyal, polite, quiet in her suffering. Her marriage to Hiroshi had been arranged, as was still custom in certain circles of tradition-bound families. He was wealthy. Well-mannered. But he had hands like cold iron and eyes that watched, always watched, as if waiting for her to make a single mistake.
The mistake came in the form of a glance. A conversation in the kitchen while Hiroshi hosted colleagues in the living room. Kazuo had smiled at her—not the polite, empty smile of a businessman, but something darker, more curious. He asked questions. He remembered her answers. That was all it took.
Now, she tasted guilt like sake—warm, bitter, and addictive.
The room was humid now. Steam from their shared breath clung to the paper walls. Yumi’s back arched as she moved above him, head tilted back, eyes closed—not in innocence, but indulgence. Her body followed its own rhythm, slow, deep, purposeful. She knew every angle that made Kazuo tremble beneath her fingers. She knew when to draw back, when to lean forward and whisper his name like a secret.
When he came undone, it wasn’t with a cry. It was in the way his grip on her thighs tightened, the tremor that moved through him, the silence that fell after. And in that silence, her breath faltered. Something inside her twisted—regret, or perhaps satisfaction.
“I think he suspects something,” she said, hours later, the yukata loosely draped around her shoulders again.
Kazuo lit another cigarette, his eyes unreadable. “You could leave him.”
She laughed softly, shaking her head. “He would never let me go.”
“Then keep lying.”
Her eyes met his. There was no shame there. Only a dangerous sort of serenity. “I will.”
Outside, the rain had stopped. The streets glistened under lantern light. Yumi stepped out alone, hair still slightly tousled, a single bite mark fading into the curve of her shoulder. As she walked home, she rehearsed her lines. She would say she was visiting a friend. That traffic had slowed her. That the storm had frightened her into waiting out the worst of it in a tea shop.
Her husband would listen. He always did. He never raised his voice.
He only watched.