Page 24 of Kotori

Paige

"This way, Williams-san." Hayashi's voice is neutral as she leads me through corridors I haven't seen before, deeper into the private wing of the compound. "Matsumoto-sama has arranged for attire consultation."

The sound of the girls' quiet studying fades behind us. I've just finished helping them with their English homework and setting them up with their independent reading—their daily quiet study time that gives me my only scheduled break. A break that Kaito has decided to fill.

My stomach clenches. After last night's dinner, after his casual mention of my "new wardrobe," I knew this was coming. But knowing doesn't make it easier to accept that my clothing choices are no longer mine to make.

We stop before sliding doors painted with elegant cranes in flight. When Hayashi opens them, I see a room that looks like something from a high-end boutique—decorative screens, and an elderly Japanese man kneeling beside bolts of expensive fabric.

"Williams-san," the man says with a deep bow. "I am Yamamoto, master tailor. It is my honor to serve Matsumoto-sama's household."

Master tailor. Of course. Not just any seamstress, but someone whose family probably dressed samurai lords for generations. Everything in this world comes with weight.

"Please," he gestures toward a silk screen. "We must begin with measurements."

Behind the screen, I strip down to just the plain cotton underwear they provided—no bra, since formal Japanese dress requires different undergarments.

The process is thorough, professional, and impersonal.

Yamamoto-san takes measurements with practiced efficiency, noting numbers in a leather-bound book while discussing fabric weights and cuts as if I'm not present.

"For formal occasions, silk in vibrant colors," he murmurs, more to himself than to me.

"Bright patterns for an unmarried woman.

Pinks, reds, purples—colors that signify youth and availability.

Conservative lines, modest necklines, appropriate for family functions.

For daily wear, quality cotton in soft pastels. Nothing that draws improper attention."

Nothing that draws improper attention. Code for nothing that suggests I have preferences, desires, or an identity beyond what Kaito wants me to project.

When the measuring is complete, Yamamoto-san brings out what he explains is a sample kimono—layers of silk in crimson and gold that shimmer under the room's lighting.

Nothing like the simple cotton yukata I wore in the gardens that first week.

This is art woven into fabric with patterns of cherry blossoms and flowing water that mark it as appropriate for a young unmarried woman.

"This is merely for initial fitting," Yamamoto-san explains. "The actual pieces will be custom-made to your exact measurements. Matsumoto-sama insists on perfection for his household."

"We will ensure proper fit for formal occasions," he says, beginning the complex process of dressing.

First comes the thin cotton under-kimono, then the silk juban, then the main kimono itself.

Each layer requires careful adjustment, specific folding techniques that Yamamoto-san performs with practiced artistry.

By the time we reach the obi—the wide silk sash that goes around my waist—I can barely move.

The sample size is slightly too small across the shoulders and a bit too short in the sleeves, but Yamamoto-san assures me the final pieces will be perfect.

"This attire teaches proper behavior," he explains as he winds the obi around my waist multiple times, pulling it tight enough that breathing becomes deliberate. "Cannot move carelessly. Cannot act without thought. Every gesture must be considered, graceful, appropriate."

The obi requires both his hands and mine to position correctly, the elaborate bow at my back taking nearly ten minutes to create. When he's finally satisfied with the fit, I feel like a statue—elegant, perfect, and completely unable to function independently.

"Excellent," he says, stepping back to admire his work. "Matsumoto-sama will be pleased with the proportions. Now we must test movement—"

The sliding door opens with a whisper of sound.

"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 every detail 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 me from 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."

"Really?" His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs tracing along the silk-covered line of my collarbones. "Show me how you would position the collar of a juban for optimal fit."

I reach up to touch the neckline, but my hands are shaking and I have no idea what I'm supposed to be adjusting. The garment feels fine to me—modest, covering everything it should cover.

"I don't know what you mean," I admit quietly.