Page 17 of Kotori
"Better." His approval shouldn't affect me, but warmth blooms in my chest anyway. "You will learn."
The meal proceeds with elaborate ritual I struggle to follow. Specific ways to hold chopsticks, precise orders for eating different dishes, proper placement of bowls—a choreography everyone but me has memorized.
I drop a piece of fish, position my rice bowl incorrectly, and repeatedly fail to gracefully handle food with chopsticks despite years of eating takeout. Each mistake earns a correction—sometimes from Mizuki, sometimes from a server who materializes to demonstrate proper technique, once from Kaito himself who reaches across to reposition my fingers on the chopsticks, his touch lingering a moment too long.
By the time the meal ends, I'm exhausted from the concentration required to simply eat without humiliating myself further.
"Williams-sensei has much to learn about Japanese customs," Mizuki observes as servers clear the dishes.
"Indeed." Kaito's gaze remains on me, unreadable but intense. "Perhaps additional lessons would be beneficial."
"I would appreciate any guidance," I say carefully, though the prospect of more rules to memorize makes my head throb.
"Excellent. We will begin tonight." He rises in one fluid motion, the movement drawing my eye to the powerful lines of his body. "Eight o'clock. My study."
Not a request. A command.
"Yes, Matsumoto-sama," I respond automatically, the honorific now coming more naturally after this morning's repeated corrections.
Bythetimeeighto'clock approaches, I'm a raw nerve of embarrassment and cultural fatigue. My confidence, usually unshakable in professional settings, lies in shreds around me.
Which is precisely the point, I realize as I make my way to Kaito's study. Every correction, every protocol, every rule serves the same purpose—to disorient me, to strip away my certainties, to emphasize how foreign I am here.
To make me dependent on guidance. His guidance.
I pause outside his study door, the realization settling cold in my stomach. The constant corrections aren't just cultural differences—they're a systematic dismantling of my independence. Each rule I don't know creates another opportunity to seek approval, another chance to be grateful for instruction, another moment of relief when I finally get something right.
Another chain, invisible but no less binding.
I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate. Part of me wants to rebel, to refuse this game entirely. To demand normal working conditions or leave.
But leave for where? With what money? On what transportation? To which destination? I'm hours from Kyoto, with no phone, no car, no independent means of support beyond what Kaito provides. The money he gave me sits in my room, but it might as well be monopoly cash for all the good it does me here, isolated on this mountain.
And beneath the practical concerns lies something more disturbing—the memory of how it felt when I correctlysaid "Matsumoto-sama" this morning, when he adjusted my chopsticks at lunch, when his eyes held mine across the table.
I knock on the door, three precise taps.
"Enter," his voice calls from within.
I slide the door open and step inside, kneeling in the spot where I knelt this morning. The room is dimmer now, lights that cast everything in warm, golden light. Kaito sits behind his desk, reading something on a laptop that he closes when I enter.
"Punctuality. Good." He studies me in silence for a long moment. "You had a difficult day."
Not a question. A statement of fact.
"Cultural differences take time to navigate," I say diplomatically.
"And yet you persist in thinking of them as differences rather than improvements." He rises, moving to the low table where I kneel. Instead of sitting across from me, he settles beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Your way isn't inherently better," I respond, then immediately regret the challenge in my voice.
But Kaito merely smiles, the expression transforming his severe features into something devastatingly handsome. "No? Tell me, which approach creates more beauty? More order? More respect?" He gestures to the perfect arrangement of the room around us. "Which approach has survived thousands of years?"
I have no good answer that doesn't sound like arrogance.
"The rules exist for reasons beyond tradition," he continues, voice dropping lower. "They create harmony. Predictability. Safety." He emphasizes the last word, dark eyes holding mine. "In chaos, threats hide easily. In order, nothing moves without permission."
The way he says "permission" sends a shiver down my spine.
