Professional Integrity

Ocean

They stayed the whole week in Mackinaw City, and Mitsuhide learned the myriad of ways to kiss her. There was the good standby: the peck on the lips, chaste and soft, a gesture of kindness over washing dishes. Sometimes it was a little longer, her head leaned back into the bend of his palm, but the general shape of it was the same.

But–oh–there were so many more.

There were the kisses where he wrapped her hair around his hand and kissed the smooth expanse of it. There were the kisses where he teased her until she pouted and tilted back her forehead to plant one there, a type of reconciliation. There were the kisses where he kissed his knuckles just before laying his hand on her, as if laying it on her in that way would spare her from his corruption.

And then there were the ones where he would look at her and realize in one smooth, sweeping, awe-inspiring moment that she existed. That she was here, with him, and he wasn't home and dreaming of what could have been. He hardly knew what to do with himself in those moments. They came in many shapes and sizes, but they all ended the same: with him hitching her tight around the back of her waist and kissing her until she was weak in the knees and gasping for mercy.

Masamune texted him a short what's up, jackass? only two days in, and Mitsuhide sent him a picture of his middle finger, the Princess waving in the background. By way of response, Masamune sent back a photo of his ass cheek, a kissing emoji stamped across it.

"Oh god," the Princess laughed, bright and full. She smiled often now, more than she had in the almost-year he'd known her. It felt like a gift he didn't deserve. "Is that normal?"

"I think we've seen Masamune's bare ass more times than I care to recall," Mitsuhide mused, a sly grin on his lips. "We had to talk him out of getting a tattoo on it that said 'Kiss it' once."

"Jesus, really?"

"In fairness, he was quite wasted at the time. But, in retrospect, when he sobered up he thought it was hilarious and we had to talk him down again."

He didn't sleep alone anymore. Now, when night fell, he slipped up into the loft with her and wrapped his arms tight around her. Whether he was a good influence or not, he couldn't tell, but her night terrors eased now. And in the morning–oh, in the morning, when the lake mist curled around the RV and cloaked them in blanket stillness, Mitsuhide let time shudder to a halt and just stroked her hair in wonder.

They visited the island nearly every day, and on the last trip over, Mitsuhide just booked a hotel room for them.

"Really?" Her eyes shone in the dimming light off the lake, smile wide.

"Really. I figured you wanted to spend more time home. The RV will be fine on the campground." He slung his backpack onto the ground and unzipped it, revealing its contents. "I even packed some things for the stay. You don't have to worry about it."

She pressed a kiss to his lips, and Mitsuhide thought it was the best thanks he'd ever received.

Their hotel was an old-fashioned tudor-style, and their room was cozy and small. A four poster bed sat facing a balcony, the wide expanse of Lake Michigan spread out before them. She flung open the doors and settled into a rocking chair after dinner, watching the glittering lights of boats in the distance. For his part, he leaned against the balustrade and tried not to gawk too openly at her. She wore this off-shoulder black dress that he'd decided he was terribly, terribly fond of.

"What are you thinking?" He asked eventually.

"About how lucky I am." And she directed a smile at him, the emerging stars pooling in her eyes. "That I get to be here, now, with you."