Four years on, the world Diesel and Sansa had forged felt vast, yet every day was still bliss to wake to.

Their blended family was expanding and was now rooted in the red earth of Byron’s Hinterland.

However, today, they were fulfilling a long-term wish to visit Japan at the height of the sakura season.

Diesel strolled through the gate in Narita Airport, a solid, immovable presence in the stream of travelers.

His two-year-old son, Raion, was strapped to his chest, the toddler’s dark head already a match for his own.

In front of him, Anaïs, now a worldly, composed ten-year-old, held Sansa’s hand.

The immense city seemed to pulse with a disciplined energy.

Welcoming them into the country at the airport were Diesel’s parents, Kazuko and David, a quiet, reliable anchor for the trip.

Kazuko, elegant and serene, gave her son a brief, firm hug before touching Raion’s cheek.

‘Welcome home, musuko,’ Kazuko greeted Diesel, exclaiming at her grandson. ‘He’s grown, even more than the last photo.’

‘He eats like a horse, Mum,’ Diesel grumbled good-naturedly, shifting the toddler’s bulk. ‘And look at this one, ten going on fifty, the way she packs her own suitcase.’

He nodded toward Anaïs, who offered her grandparents a polite, practiced curtsy, her posture flawless.

Sansa and Kazuko shared a warm embrace.

‘Okaasan, you get prettier every day,’ Sansa smiled, her affection genuine.

Kazuko simpered. ‘You lie, but I adore you regardless.’

The pair had a fantastic relationship, trading numerous nicknames and jokes.

Sansa whispered to Diesel as they loaded into a minivan, ‘She’s a super cool lady, and I enjoy having her in my life, like my own mother.’

He winked at his woman, his heart overflowing.

This was the her and Anaïs’ second visit to Japan, but their first with Raion.

This time, the focus was on spending time with the children while also taking some time for themselves.

She and Diesel planned to immerse themselves in the food culture.

The plan was precise, military in its execution: two days of cultural immersion and fun for the young ones, followed by three days of uninterrupted escape for the parents.

Bliss.

Their holiday program started with catering to the kids.

Tokyo DisneyWorld was a necessary riot of color and noise, an experience Diesel endured with the stoic grace of a man who loved his offspring but loathed crowds.

‘If one more giant foam glove touches my back, I’m calling in a tactical extraction,’ Diesel muttered to Sansa.

He clenched his jaw as a parade rolled past, his massive frame dwarfed by the bubble plastic pastel characters.

Mickey bounced by, greeting the youngsters as Wicked, The Musical, tunes blasted from a distant fairy castle that entranced Anaïs.

She was living her best life, enthralled, and pointing out every detail, while Raion was confused and delighted by the oversized, strange mice.

The days spent with the children in Tokyo were a high-speed, sensory immersion, a necessary contrast to the quiet of the Hinterland.

Diesel endured the crowds because the payoff, the sheer wonder on their faces, was worth the effort.

Anaïs’ eyes took in the clean, organized, almost serene chaos of Tokyo.

They hit the candy stores in Harajuku, allowing them all to gorge on colored sugar, and then countered the rush with educational hits.

Miraikan, the science and innovation museum, captivated both kids with its robotic displays, while the Ghibli Gallery was a magical sanctuary that even softened Diesel’s mood.

They paused for culture at Senso-ji Temple, the shrine a welcome moment of stillness, before letting the kids run free in the vast, green space of Ueno Park.

Sansa leaned into him at one point, as they tracked the children running around. ‘Seeing these two fascinated by the mix of hyper-modern Tokyo and the temples was the grounding we needed before our own escape.’

‘Can’t wait to get lost in our wonderland, babe,’ Diesel winked, tapping Sansa’s ass.

Once the children were settled at the hotel, lulled by jet lag and the gentle structure of their grandparents’ care, Diesel and Sansa slipped away.

The setting for their couples getaway was Kyoto, its ancient lanes already covered with pink blooms from the first burst of cherry blossoms.

The air was cool, carrying the sweet scent of the sakura and wet earth.

Soft pink and white petals enveloped them, the vistas a perfect blend of manicured gardens, centuries-old temples, and the ethereal beauty of the fleeting bloom.

For three days, they joined a small group food tour, a curated, condensed sprint through the hidden back streets.

It was a sensory assault: the delicate, charred perfection of yakitori from a stall scarcely large enough for two people, on a tiny table under paper lanterns; the complex, umami rush of shojin ryori served in a silent, ancestral temple; and the vibrant clatter of a regional market where Sansa spotted a formidable-looking chef’s knife.

‘Do you really need that?’ Diesel asked, raising an eyebrow at the gleaming blade.

Sansa’s smile was predatory. ‘Need it? No. But I crave it. It’s got a perfect weight, honey. Think of the herbs I could mince into submission.’

He knew he wouldn’t be able to resist her when she talked about tools, so he bought it for her, appreciating the craftsman’s skill.

They drank artisanal sake in a tiny, wooden brewery nestled amongst old townhouses, the smooth, cold liquid loosening the last of their vigilance.

‘This one is flavored like mountain water and sassiness,’ Sansa declared, holding her tumbler up to the light, admiring the liquid’s clarity.

‘Sassy is definitely your brand,’ Diesel returned, knocking his cup against hers. ‘Mine tastes like I’m about to drag you back to that ryokan and make you scream my name.’

True to his wicked threat, in between the exquisite food and wine tours, they headed back to their hotel room. Where they made love in a traditional ryokan, the crisp scent of tatami mats and the sound of distant temple bells serenaded their bliss.

Sansa struggled to stay awake after the wild bliss.

‘This is what happens when you top me with too much sake and keep the children away,’ Sansa whispered, tracing the sculpted line of his jaw. ‘I get soft, compliant, and sleepy as fuck, and freaky-horizontal.’

Diesel growled, pulling her closer, his muscles thick and hot against her, kissing her long and deep.

‘Yeah? You think I can ply you with more wine to get you truly freaky-horizontal so that we can create a third mini-Akimoto, then? To round out the squadron, perhaps one more of those little angels?’

Sansa laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Raion is enough mayhem for now, my love. I’m not signing up for another two years of sleep deprivation for a better tasting menu.’

She settled against his chest, her fingers weaving into the dark hair on his torso.

‘But maybe we ought to book one of these food tours every year, just in case.’

The thought hung in the air, a soft, seductive promise of a future yet to be written.

They ended their trip back at David and Kazuko’s farm in Okinawa, a tranquil, windswept property amid stone walls overlooking the coast.

The vistas here were starkly different from Kyoto, dominated by the turquoise ocean and the wild, subtropical greenery.

Here, Diesel shed the last of the city’s tension, spending his time with his parents, searching for inspiration for his next release of whiskeys.

He often traveled to this place, drawn by the salt winds and by his mother’s coastal village, tinkering with recipes and traditions.

His mother, Kazuko, taught him to respect the quiet artistry of sake brewing, showing him how each grain of rice carried a history of patience and precision.

Together, they experimented with unique infusions, melding the familiar with the foreign.

He worked to balance the rich, peaty smoke of Australian distillation with the subtle, complex notes of Okinawan tradition.

Their newest ideas were bold, taking inspiration from the local produce: a Sea Salt Umeshu.

Diesel took tart plums and steeped them with gin, but a touch of crystalline salt harvested from the nearby tidal pools. This lent the finished product a primal, oceanic edge.

They devised a liqueur, the Shikuwasa-Ginger Kiss, in which the tiny, fragrant Okinawan lime sliced through the sweetness, bolstered by the piquant warmth of fresh, grated zest.

For an unusual vintage, Diesel was perfecting an Awamori-Oak Twist.

He created it by aging the spirit in charred Japanese oak barrels that had previously held his tropical fruit-infused whiskey.

This gave the liquor a rich, tropical sophistication with notes of pineapple, mango, and smoke.

In this quiet, remote corner of the world, surrounded by the deep blue of the ocean and the grounding force of his family, Diesel found the ultimate focus.

The complexity of his life was distilled down to patience, flavor, and the unbreakable bedrock of home.

And always, by the shared adoration that he and Sansa unraveled every day.

It wasn’t a grand story told all at once, but a slow, careful unspooling, thread by thread, of an incandescent existence that was both fragile and eternal.

With Sansa, life was built in the devotion to their children and extended family, in shared meals, in salt air and laughter, in the comfort of knowing he was seen, chosen, and wanted.

Their love didn’t rush; it rooted, deep and inevitable, growing into a life he never dared to imagine, and now couldn’t live without.

Now and forever more.