Chapter 7

The scent of petrichor and crushed plum blossoms still clung to the air, a sweet, heavy perfume that had seeped into the very fibers of my skin during the long, drunken sway of our hips against the cool stone of the garden wall. I woke slowly, the world returning to me in fragments of light and shadow. Above me, the paper lanterns from the festival were still strung, their soft glow filtering through the bamboo blinds of the small tea house where we had collapsed, or perhaps it was the guest room of the estate that had hosted the event; the distinction blurred in the haze of sleep, irrelevant now. What mattered was the weight of him on top of me, solid and warm, his breathing a rhythmic counterpoint to my own. I shifted slightly, the silk sheets pooling around my waist, and felt the shift of muscle in his chest. He was still in his yukata, though the obi had been loosened, the fabric slipping off one shoulder to reveal the pale expanse of his collarbone. He hadn’t stripped me of my kimono completely; the layers were tangled around our legs, a chaotic tapestry of indigo and white, but