In the tenderness of his voice, there's also an unyielding dominance — he's not willing to take a no for an answer. His hand holds the strap, a gentle pull to steal it from the ace's shoulder.
“ That's better, we can go in now. Welcome to my home, 𝘞𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘴𝘩𝘪—𝘴𝘢𝘯. ”
A maddening summer; one could easily fall into insanity under the violent sunlight. It wasn't time for the harvest season, yet Kita would spend his days tending to his pampered fields.
That morning, after praying and finishing his breakfast, he prepared the guest room.
His body moves enough to allow him to enter. An old-fashioned Japanese home. Long wooden floors without a speck of dust, walls that carry the smell of Darjeeling tea, and the distant chant of a kōi pond.
“ I'll take your bag, you shouldn't be carrying this anyway. ”