Page 33 of Kotori
"You're punctual," he says, not turning around immediately. Sweat drips down his spine, following the curve of the dragon's tail. "Good."
When he finally faces me, his dark eyes catalog every detail of my appearance—the way the yukata restricts my movement, how the elaborate hair arrangement exposes my neck.
"Perfect," he murmurs, and the word sounds like ownership. "Walk with me."
It's not a request. He sets the bow aside but doesn't bother adjusting his clothing. The white gi hangs loose around his waist, leaving his torso exposed as we begin walking. I try not tostare at the way morning light catches the sweat on his skin, the intricate details of ink that shift and move with each step.
The path he chooses leads deeper into the gardens, past areas I've glimpsed from windows. Here, the estate reveals its true scope—acres of carefully maintained landscape that speak of wealth and planning.
"This garden was designed by my great-great-grandfather," he says as we walk slowly, my restricted movement in the kimono setting our pace. "Every stone placed with intention, every tree planted for a purpose that would take decades to fulfill."
We cross a small wooden bridge over a stream where koi fish flash gold and red beneath the surface. Cherry trees line the path ahead, their early blossoms catching the dawn light.
"He understood that true beauty requires patience. Sacrifice. The willingness to plant trees you'll never see mature, to begin projects your great-grandchildren will complete." His voice carries the weight of someone who's lived with such responsibility. "Western minds struggle with this concept."
The criticism stings, but I'm distracted by the way he moves beside me—still half-dressed, completely comfortable in his skin, while I'm wrapped in layers like a present he's yet to unwrap. Morning light catches the sweat on his skin, highlighting every curve of muscle beneath the intricate tattoos.
"It's beautiful," I admit, not entirely sure if I mean the garden or him.
"Beauty requires maintenance," he says, his hand briefly touching the small of my back as we navigate a narrow section of the path. "Constant attention. The removal of elements that don't belong."
Something in his tone makes me glance at him sharply, but his expression reveals nothing.
This close, I can see the fine details of his tattoos—the individual scales on the koi, the delicate petals of cherryblossoms, the way wind bars flow like water down his arm. The artistry is incredible, but there's something dangerous about it too. Like warnings written in ink across his skin.
"Tell me about your family," he says as we pause beside an ancient stone lantern. "Your traditions."
"We don't really have traditions," I admit, watching a dragonfly hover above the water. "My parents divorced when I was twelve. I spent holidays shuttling between houses, trying to make everyone happy."
"No stability. No continuity." He studies my face with unsettling intensity. "How exhausting."
The simple observation hits where I'm vulnerable. It was exhausting—always being the mediator, always responsible for keeping peace between people who couldn't stand each other.
A memory surfaces—Christmas when I was fourteen, standing in my father's driveway with an overnight bag, waiting in the freezing cold because my mother dropped me off early and Dad wasn't home yet. I called her to come back, but she was already "too far" to turn around. My tears felt hot against my cold cheeks as I swore someday I'd find a place where I belonged.
"Is that why you ran to Japan?" he asks, moving closer as we walk beneath the shadow of a maple tree. "Seeking the stability you never had?"
"I didn't run."
"Of course not." His tone suggests he doesn't believe me. "You made a careful decision to abandon your entire life and flee to the other side of the world."
When he puts it like that, it sounds exactly like running.
We follow the winding path in silence for a moment, the rhythmic click of my geta sandals against stone the only sound between us. Around us, the garden wakes. Birds call from ancient trees, koi splash in the pond, bamboo rustles in the morning breeze.
"This place," I say softly, watching sunlight filter through leaves above us. "Your family has lived here for..."
"Four hundred years." Pride enters his voice. "Sixteen generations of Matsumoto men have walked these paths, made decisions that affected hundreds of lives, preserved what matters most."
"That's incredible."
"It's my responsibility." He steps closer, near enough that I can see the silver threading through his black hair. "Do you understand what that means, Paige-san?"
"I think so."
"Are you sure?" His voice drops to something intimate and commanding. "Every choice I make affects not just me, but my daughters, my clan, the legacy of sixteen generations. When I decide to keep something precious, it becomes part of that legacy forever."
The way he says "keep something precious" makes my mouth go dry.
