Page 50 of Kotori
"That will be all, Yamamoto-san."
Kaito's voice fills the room, quiet and commanding. My breath catches as he enters, wearing a casual black shirt and dark slacks that somehow make him look more dangerous than his formal suits. His dark eyes find mine immediately, cataloging everydetail of my appearance with satisfaction that makes my skin flush.
"Hai, Matsumoto-sama." Yamamoto-san bows deeply. "The fit is excellent. We will have the complete wardrobe ready within the week."
Kaito returns the bow with respectful depth—not as deep as the elder craftsman's, but genuine acknowledgment of decades of mastery. Even yakuza lords show proper respect to traditional artists.
"Your work honors our family, Yamamoto-san. As always." His tone carries genuine appreciation. "You may go."
The dismissal is gentle but absolute. Yamamoto-san gathers his materials in silence, offering another bow before sliding the door closed behind him.
Leaving me alone with Kaito, wrapped in layers of silk like an expensive present he's about to unwrap.
"Beautiful," he says softly, moving closer. "The color brings out your eyes. This styling suits you." His gaze narrows slightly as he notices the imperfections in the fit. "Though this sample hardly does you justice."
I try to step back and nearly stumble—the tight obi and restrictive kimono making movement impossible. He's beside me instantly, hands steadying my shoulders.
"Careful, kotori." His hands remain on my shoulders, warm through the silk layers. "Turn around. Let me see the back."
The request sounds reasonable, but something in his tone makes my pulse quicken, because I know it's more than that. I turn carefully, so he can see the elaborate obi bow, the way the silk clings to my body beneath the formal layers.
"Yamamoto's craftsmanship is flawless," he murmurs, close enough that I feel his breath against my neck. "But this sample is unworthy of you. Look how it pulls at the shoulders, how the sleeves don't fall properly. You deserve perfection."
His hands find the edge of the obi bow, fingers tracing along the intricate folds. "This sample can't show me how you'll look in your custom pieces. The proportions are wrong. You need to be draped in silk that follows your curves, not confined in something made for another woman's body."
"I'm fine," I say quickly. "It's just a fitting, right?"
"A fitting should give you a glimpse of perfection, not compromise." His fingers begin working at the complex knots with practiced skill. "You'll have garments that enhance your beauty, not distort it with poor fit."
I feel the first loop of the obi loosen, and suddenly I can take a deeper breath. But his hands don't stop there—they continue working at the elaborate bow, unwinding silk with the patience of someone who has all the time in the world.
"Matsumoto-sama, I don't think—"
"Shh." His voice is gentle but firm. "Let me help you. This is part of your education. You should understand how these garments should feel when properly fitted."
The obi bow comes undone, and he begins unwinding the long silk sash from around my waist. Each rotation of the fabric brings his hands closer to my body, the silk sliding away.
"Better," he murmurs as the tight band around my ribs disappears. "You were holding your breath. Now the outer kimono—the shoulders are pulling incorrectly."
I'm starting to feel like nothing was out of place at all.
His hands move to the collar of the main kimono, adjusting the neckline with touches that feel too intimate for clothing adjustment. When his fingers brush against my throat, I can't suppress the soft gasp that escapes.
"Sensitive," he observes. "Good. You're learning to feel instead of just endure."
The outer kimono slides from my shoulders, pooling at my feet. I'm left in the silk juban—essentially a slip that covers mefrom shoulders to mid-thigh—but I feel more exposed than if I were naked.
"Much better," he says, circling around me. "Now I can see your proportions without that ill-fitting sample obscuring your lines. The way you move instead of how fabric forces you to move."
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of how thin the silk juban is, how it clings to my body. "This isn't appropriate."
"Appropriate for what?" His eyes meet mine with amusement. "For a master helping his student understand proper dress? For a man ensuring the women in his household are properly fitted? Or are you thinking of something else entirely?"
Heat floods my cheeks. He's right. He hasn't done anything overtly inappropriate. Everything has been framed as cultural education, practical assistance, and concern for my comfort. But the way he looks at me, the way his hands linger just a moment too long during each adjustment...
"The under-kimono as well," he says, moving behind me again. "Even this sample juban doesn't sit right on your shoulders. The neckline is wrong—too high, too restrictive. When we order your custom pieces, everything must be perfect."
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "That's fine. I can adjust it myself."
