He closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was no longer a samurai’s. It was a boy’s.
She knelt before him, close enough to smell the sour wine and the cedar oil he used on his sword. With deliberate slowness, she took the jug and set it aside. Milking Love -Final- -Samurai Drunk-
“And ‘stay’?” she pressed, softer now. He closed his eyes
“Safe?” He opened his eyes. They were wet. “The last time I was safe was right now. Right here. Drunk. With your hand on my heart. Because a man about to die has nothing to lose. That is the only safety.” She knelt before him, close enough to smell
“Then give me the last milk,” she breathed against his skin. “Not your life. Just this moment. Stay drunk. Stay honest. For one hour, let me love you without you apologizing with your sword.”