Chapter Thirteen:

  “Promises”

  The Sleeping Fox was alive with warmth and light.

  Lanterns swung gently from the ceiling beams, their paper skins painted with foxes, waves, and dancing flames. The glow they cast turned every surface golden, every shadow soft.

  The tables were full tonight—locals whispering of cracks in the barrier, and the first trickle of coastal refugees from Pearl Bay and the surrounding cliffs. Mostly Nekomijin families, their cloaks still damp from sea mist, eyes scanning the room with quiet tension. Some spoke in hushed tones to the innkeeper. Children sat close to their mothers, ears low. Elders stared into their cups, saying little.

  The room held warmth, yes—but beneath it, something quieter: dread dressed in courtesy.

  John sat between Yumi and Akira, with Rai across from them. RW curled up beside their table like a hearth-fire come to life, her blue flames casting soft pulses of light into the conversation.

  The air smelled of spiced rice, charred fish, and something sweet and faintly magical.

  "Careful with the noodles," Rai warned, lifting her chopsticks. "Last time, mine lit up and started glowing brighter every time I touched it."

  "That was a feature, not a flaw," Yumi said, already chewing one glowing strand. Her whiskers twitched with amusement. "Just... don’t stare too long."

  John blinked. "That’s not exactly reassuring."

  Akira deadpanned, "It’s best not to ask questions."

  Mistress Tsubaki arrived then, placing down another round of plates. Dumplings that shimmered with inner fire. Broth that steamed in soft colors. Pickled vegetables layered with plum, ginger, and something crisp and citrusy—perfectly chilled to balance the warmth of the other dishes.

  "The foxfire dumplings are particularly unruly tonight," she said with a grin. Her six tails flicked behind her, brushing the air like silk streamers. "Pace yourselves, and please—no sword fighting at the table."

  RW tilted her head. "Are we expecting sword fighting?"

  "Not unless Rai gets dramatic," Akira muttered.

  Rai raised a cup in mock offense. "I am elegance incarnate," she said.

  John couldn’t stop smiling. The food, the warmth, the laughter—it all felt unreal. Not because it was too perfect, but because it had been so long since things felt normal. Why had he come here in the first place? He no longer remembered. No longer cared.

  RW observed the table through half-lidded eyes. "It’s rare, you know. This. The pause. The warmth. Most stories don’t get this before they end."

  John looked over. "That’s a cheerful thought."

  "Realism," she corrected. "You’d be amazed what people remember right before the end. It’s never the fights. It’s this. Meals. Touch. Laughter."

  Her words made the table go quiet for a moment. Then Mistress Tsubaki refilled their cups.

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  "To heroes," she said softly.

  John raised his cup. So did the others. Even Akira.

  The toast rang gently in the air like a bell.

  In that moment, everything outside the inn could have vanished, and no one would have noticed.

  The lanterns swayed.

  And time, just for a moment, stood still.

  For the rest of the meal, Yumi drifted a little closer. By the time their cups were empty and the lanterns began to burn low, her shoulder brushed his with easy familiarity.

  Neither of them spoke about it.

  By the time John stood alone in front of Yumi’s door, the laughter had faded—replaced by the soft hush of a world settling into sleep.

  The lanterns swayed gently above, casting low, golden pools on the floorboards. Outside, the paper windows trembled faintly against the breath of night.

  His hand hovered just above the polished wood. He could hear faint movement inside—cloth shifting, maybe the soft padding of her feet. He exhaled slowly.

  He knocked.

  The door slowly opened.

  Yumi stood there in the lamplight. A pale robe draped over her frame, loose and simple. Her red hair fell around her shoulders in soft waves. Her ears twitched once, nervously. Her tails moved like breath behind her.

  "Hi," she said.

  John offered a small, unsure smile. "Hi."

  Neither moved for a heartbeat.

  Then she stepped aside.

  The room was softly lit, a single lantern on the far table casting a soft amber glow. The bedding had been turned down. A faint scent—lavender and something like river stone—hung in the air.

  Yumi shut the door behind him.

  "You don’t have to stay," she said, almost immediately, her voice thin with nerves. "I just... I didn’t want to sleep alone tonight."

  John turned toward her. "I don’t want to be anywhere else."

  She blinked, her eyes wide and full of something delicate and dangerous.

  "Okay," she whispered.

  He crossed the room slowly. There was no rush, no hunger. Just silence, and the small distance between them closing with each step. When he reached her, he gently took her hand.

  It was warm. Slightly trembling.

  "You sure?" he asked.

  Instead of answering, Yumi leaned in and kissed him—soft, hesitant, but certain.

  His hand came up, brushing through her hair.

  John smiled and leaned in. He rested his forehead against hers, and breathed.

  "Okay," he murmured.

  They stood like that a long time.

  When then next kiss came, it was quiet.

  Not desperate. Not urgent. Just real.

  The kiss deepened slowly.

  Their bodies moved with a quiet rhythm—each touch deliberate, each breath shared. John felt her hands slide to his shoulders, hesitant at first, then firmer. Yumi’s fingers curled against the fabric of his shirt like she was anchoring herself to something real.

  They didn’t rush. The moment wasn’t just about passion. It was about presence.

  John’s lips found the curve of her jaw, then the space just below her ear. Her tails brushed against him, soft and slow. The world narrowed to warmth and skin and the pulse of trust between them.

  They found the bed together, not in haste but with the unspoken understanding that they didn’t want the moment to slip away. Yumi sat first, pulling him gently down with her. Her robe slipped slightly off her shoulder, and John reached to help her with it—not to remove, but to steady. She gave him a soft smile, shy but sure.

  The blankets shifted around them. Clothes were loosened. Skin met skin. But every movement asked a question, and every answer was a yes.

  When they lay together, it wasn’t about discovery. It was about connection.

  Yumi’s breath hitched only once—when John’s hand slid along her side, fingers splayed like he was memorizing her. She buried her face in his neck.

  "You’re gentle," she whispered.

  "So are you," he said, barely more than breath.

  The hours passed in soft waves—movements, stillness, whispered laughter. The room held them like a secret, its warmth undisturbed.

  At some point, Yumi lay curled against his side, her head resting on his chest, her hand loosely laced in his. The lantern burned low. Her tails rose and fell in rhythm with their breath.

  "John," she said quietly. "Back when I first entered the Dive, I thought I’d be okay with not making it out. My grandmother taught me not to lay down and die, but still... I didn’t expect to survive."

  He didn’t interrupt.

  "But now," she continued, her voice shaking, "I want to live. I want more time. With you."

  John kissed the top of her head. His voice was steady, but inside, everything cracked.

  "Then I’ll make sure you have it. No matter what comes."

  She curled closer to him.

  Neither spoke again.

  The night held them gently.

  And outside, somewhere beyond the warmth of the inn, the barrier pulsed—brighter than before.

  Then dimmed.