The sun slipped into the windows of the Arakawa villa like an unwanted guest. It was that shy, translucent light that tried to tiptoe in but was always met with the disdainful gaze of half-lowered blinds.
Yamato sat at the kitchen table in a thick wine-colored cotton robe, the hood pulled low over his brow, eyes offended by every ray of light. He looked like a samurai from a bygone era—if that samurai were hungover, pampered, and completely uninterested in anything except the grilled mochi cakes his mother made every morning.
"Were you up until three again watching those documentaries about dragons and myths?" asked Mrs. Arakawa, pouring tea with the expression of a woman who had seen the same movie too many times.
"It's not a documentary. It's a cultural archetype analysis in Japanese pop culture."
"It's anime, Yamato."
"Still cultural heritage."
She only laughed and placed a plate in front of him. The mochi, still hot, smelled like rice and childhood.
He bit into one without ceremony. And immediately spat it out.
"Hot! Are you trying to kill me?"
"Just testing your reflexes. You're getting older, you know."
"If I survive your kitchen assassinations, I might consider putting you in my will."
As he rubbed his tongue, his mother sat across from him. Her posture was regal, and her smile belonged to someone who knew absolutely everything—and used that knowledge with sniper precision.
"You know… the new cleaning lady arrives today."
Yamato jolted like he'd just heard a government inspector was entering his home.
"But… Tomoe knows every corner of this house. She knows where I keep my weapons. She knows I occasionally like walking around naked. That kind of knowledge can't be passed on!"
"The new girl is young, hardworking, and came highly recommended. She'll manage."
"Oh, sure. Nothing says 'great start' like a 22-year-old American student coming to clean a house owned by a man who carries a gun at his waist."
"Don't be awful. She's working to earn a living and deserves a chance. And another thing… don't look at her the way you do."
"How do you know how I look at her?"
"Because I'm your mother, Yamato. I know when you lie in your sleep."
He simply raised an eyebrow and leaned back in thought. A new cleaning lady. A student. American. That already sounded like the start of a bad rom-com… or a really good problem.
"Will she at least speak Japanese?" he asked, suspicious.
"Not perfectly, but enough to know where the broom is. That's all you need."
"She doesn't know who she's sharing a roof with."
His mother chuckled and leaned toward him. "And you don't know who you'll be sharing breakfast with."
He rolled his eyes and stood up. "I'm going to the study. If she shows up—I don't exist."
"You say that every time the mailman comes."
"And every time, it works."
As he climbed the stairs, Yamato felt a nervousness he couldn't explain. It wasn't fear. He feared nothing. But he didn't like unknown elements. Anything outside his control was potential chaos.
And chaos was something he carefully rationed.
In the study, he sat at a massive desk, unlocked a drawer, and pulled out a folder. Inside—papers. Names of companies that didn't exist. Bank accounts that asked no questions. Names no one spoke aloud.
He tried to read, but his thoughts drifted. Sounds from downstairs—his mother talking… a door opening… footsteps, light and uncertain… a soft voice.
And then… a new frequency.
Something different in the way those feet moved. Like someone stepping into a new world. Unsteady legs, but with a determined rhythm. A female voice, slightly tense, but firm.
Yamato looked up.
Not because he wanted to—because something in him refused to stay still.
And at that moment, the door opened gently.
The silence broke with a sentence that didn't carry weight, but it carried change.
"Hello… I'm the new cleaning lady."
Yamato stood mid-staircase like someone who had just been hit by a train. Only, this train had long legs, an afro, honey-coffee skin, and… curves that defied every known law of physics.
"So… you're the new cleaning lady?" he asked, dragging the words out as if each had to be pushed through a maze of shock.
"And you are… what exactly? The headmaster?" she asked, eyeing him from head to toe. Her gaze was direct, honest, and entirely unapologetic.
Yamato blinked. Twice.
"I'm the owner of this house," he muttered, gripping the edge of his robe like it could make him look more dignified.
"Oh. I assumed anyone with a plush unicorn on the stairs wasn't the world's most dangerous man."
His mother chimed in from the kitchen. "That was a birthday gift from last year. He loves it, but you wouldn't know that—since you just arrived."
The girl laughed, wide and loud. The sound was like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Yamato felt painfully uneasy.
He wasn't afraid of women. He'd met princesses and mercenaries. But this one… this one was a mix of humility and danger, with enough curves to require alphabetical categorization.
"Do you know how to clean Japanese wooden floors?" he asked, trying to restore authority to his voice.
"I can clean any surface known to man. Except the male ego—that's too dirty and stubborn for my taste."
His mother leaned on the doorframe, hand under her chin, smiling.
"I like you. What's your name, dear?"
"Amara. Amara Jones."
"Beautiful name. And your surname is—?"
"Jones. Like Indiana."
Yamato rolled his eyes. "And what do you study, Indiana Jones? The archaeology of rich old men's hearts?"
"No, Mr. Arakawa. I study linguistics. Which means I can tell exactly when someone uses language to hide insecurity."
His mother coughed, trying to suppress a laugh.
Yamato crossed his arms. "Rules are clear. No entering my study. No questions. No lingering in hallways."
Amara nodded. "Understood. I have rules too, you know?"
"What kind of rules?"
"That you don't look at me like I'm dessert. Because if you keep staring like that—I'll have to charge you admission."
Stunned, he couldn't answer. The words caught in his throat, as if they too decided it was wiser to remain silent.
Amara walked past him carrying a bucket and broom, her hips moving with so much confidence Yamato thought she could conquer Parliament—without saying a word.
In the hallway, she paused, turned, and said, "You're… more charming than you want people to know. But your sarcasm is on life support."
"Sarcasm is a refined tool. It doesn't need to flaunt."
"Or it's just a defense mechanism for wealthy men with commitment issues."
Yamato almost laughed. Almost.
When she disappeared around the corner, he stood frozen. His mother slowly approached, holding a cup of green tea and smiling knowingly.
"Careful you don't fall. You're staring at those curves like it's your first time seeing them."
"Mother."
"I'm just saying… I didn't know you had a thing for women like her."
"I don't have a thing. I have boundaries."
"And she's sweeping right over them."
He didn't respond. He just stood there, listening to the footsteps fading down the hallway.
He didn't know what to do with her.
Sunlight filtered through the shōji screens, bathing the traditional wooden floors of a house where time stood still. The scent of green tea and toasted bread drifted from the kitchen, where Mrs. Arakawa hummed an old enka melody, swaying gently as she sliced radishes with perfect precision.
Amara, on the other hand, was still recovering from what she saw upon entering. A pile of shoes at the entrance—all perfectly arranged except for one pair that looked like it had been thrown in a fit of rage. The walls sparkled, but the floor… let's just say it had more personality than a floor should.
"Okay, okay…" she whispered to herself, pulling her hair into a ponytail—a futile task, given the volume of her glorious afro. "You're just a cleaning lady. A cleaning lady in a luxurious Japanese house full of secrets. Nothing scary about that, right?"
She entered the living room, broom in one hand, bucket in the other, and found a room in perfect order—except for one pillow on the floor, obviously thrown on purpose. Was everyone here fond of throwing things?
"Oh, dear," Mrs. Arakawa appeared silently like a ghost. "You're so diligent! An old lady like me's been waiting for someone like you. Come now, tea first."
"Thank you, Mrs. Arakawa, but I'd better finish—"
"No, no, no! In this house, tea comes first. Rules are rules."
She smiled. A warm woman, elegant even in a kimono robe, strangely reminiscent of an old black-and-white film actress. Amara almost forgot where she was. Almost.
The house was enormous, full of rooms and hallways that seemed to lead to other dimensions. To her luck—or misfortune—there was no sign of the man. He was like a ghost: present in everything, but unseen.
Everything went surprisingly smoothly. Until it came time to be paid.
"Ah, dear, I'd pay you right away, but that's my son's job. He's very punctual when it comes to money. I know he looks intimidating, but deep down… well, you'll see for yourself."
See for herself?
Mrs. Arakawa nodded cheerfully, as if she hadn't just sent a young girl straight into the lion's den.
She knocked on the door.
Silence.
She knocked again.
The door creaked open by itself, like in a horror film. He stood there.
Black shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the edge of something on his chest. Maybe a tattoo. Maybe armor. Maybe both.
He looked down at her, his expression a mix of boredom and irritation. Like she had interrupted meditation. Or ninja training. Who knew.
"I finished cleaning," she said curtly, hands on her hips.
He said nothing, just nodded. His gaze dropped—for a moment. Breasts. Hips. Everything.
Then quickly returned to her face. That arrogant face.
"My mother sent you?" he asked, his voice gravelly like something out of a movie.
"Is that strange? That her son who lives here pays me? Or is it strange talking to someone who doesn't whisper when they see you?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"What's strange is that you're still here."
"What's strange is that you don't realize I'm the one who just scrubbed your floor."
"I didn't ask you to."
"Nor did I ask for you. And yet—here we are."
They stood in silence. One second. Two. Three.
Her eyes were direct. His tried to be. But his neck tensed every time he tried to hold her gaze. Because his eyes always drifted to where they shouldn't.
Curves. Damn curves.
He turned sharply, walked to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out the cash. Wordlessly handed it to her.
"Thanks. I expected gold bars, but okay, cash is fine too."
She took the money and walked to the door.
"Close it behind you."
"Only if you promise not to sniff the room after. It smells like floor cleaner and frustration."
She closed the door.
He stood alone in the room. The scent of lemon and lavender stung his nostrils. And the trace of her—in his mind—hit like a punch.
Frustration, yes. But something else, too.
Something much worse.
She intrigued him.
And that infuriated him.