Amara stood in front of the Arakawa family home, staring at the front door like it might swallow her whole. She felt like every brick in the wall had turned into a mouth whispering warnings: Go back. Go back while you still can. But wasn't it too late for that?
She tightened the strap of her backpack and took a deep breath. Her legs felt like cotton as she knocked. The door opened almost immediately, and on the other side stood her—always graceful, slightly smiling, and unbelievably composed: the mother.
"Oh, my dear! Come in, come in, what are you waiting for? It's cold outside, and you look like you've been standing under a shower of fear!"
Amara offered a slight smile, but her eyes darted around the hallway, expecting Yamato to emerge from the shadows with a katana. But the house was quiet. Too quiet.
"Mr. Yamato?" she asked softly, more to herself than to the woman.
"He's still sleeping. He came home late last night, something about work... You know how it goes."
Actually, now she knew exactly how it went. Or at least guessed enough for her heart to skip a beat every time she heard his name.
She began cleaning as usual. The vacuum cleaner was quieter than her thoughts, and fear clung to her like the dust she was trying to remove. Whenever she neared his room, her shoulders would tense, and she'd quicken her pace, not daring to even glance at the doorknob.
Then, from the kitchen, came the sound of a door opening.
Footsteps.
Amara ducked behind the living room door, leaning against the wall and praying he'd pass by unnoticed. Still, she couldn't help but peek.
Yamato Arakawa appeared in the kitchen… in pajamas.
And not just any pajamas.
It was a deep blue silk pajama set, printed with anime characters—a winged samurai with enormous eyes covering the top, and the bottom… well, Amara quickly looked away. Too much.
His hair was messy, one strand falling across his face, and his bare feet slid over the tatami mat like a lazy cat. He looked like a completely different person. Not a mafia boss. Not a cold authority figure. More like a spoiled, slightly childish brother of a famous actor pretending to be a breakfast host on Japanese TV.
"Did you give me more salmon this time, Mom?" he yawned. "Last time you sent me to the underworld starving. Shame on you."
"Are you serious?" she laughed as she poured green tea. "If you show up in front of people in those pajamas again, I'll send Amara to beat you with a mop."
He blinked. "Amara's here?"
Her heart stopped.
His mother chuckled. "Of course she's here. She's been cleaning for an hour. I don't dare ask her to knock on your door anymore—she thinks you'll eat her."
Yamato suddenly sobered, his smile extinguished like a flame in the wind. Amara saw it. She saw how his face changed. From childlike to cold. In silence, he slowly stood up and adjusted his pajama top like he had just become aware of the world around him.
"Tell her to come have tea with us," he said, though he wasn't looking at his mother. His eyes were fixed on the corner where she was hiding.
She laughed. "Amara! Come join us!"
Amara stepped out slowly, as if walking toward a guillotine. When she stood in front of the table, Yamato nodded at her, but his gaze was as cold as a Tokyo winter.
"Good day," he said formally.
"Good… day," she whispered, avoiding his eyes.
She sat across from him, trying not to stare at his pajamas and to keep her hands still. The mother was chatting, pouring tea, arranging cookies. Yamato was silent, and Amara felt like a fly trapped between two glass panes.
After a few moments of silence, he finally spoke.
"You're… very quiet today," he said without sarcasm, but also without warmth.
"I have a lot to think about."
"Because of me?"
She bit her lip. Blinked. Then nodded. Just once.
Yamato put down his chopsticks. His eyes were dark, but not angry. They were… curious.
"You know, don't you?" he said quietly, almost in a whisper. "Who I am."
She looked up. She wasn't crying, but her gaze was glassy.
"Yes."
Yamato leaned back, arms crossed.
"All right."
Just that.
All right.
The silence that hung over the table was thick like honey—dense, sticky, and uncomfortable. Amara tried to keep her hands steady as she held the teacup, and Yamato just sat there, staring straight ahead. He didn't blink. Didn't move. Just stared.
The mother cut through the tension like kitchen scissors through thread.
"Child," she said gently, but loud enough to make them both flinch, "you have nothing to be afraid of. I know, I know what you've found out. These days everything's on the internet. You can Google it all." She mimicked typing with her fingers and laughed at herself. "But what Yamato does… has nothing to do with you."
Amara looked up, her eyes cautious.
"But… he's…"
"The king of the underworld, I know, I know." She waved a hand like Amara had said Yamato won a local chess tournament, not that he ran organized crime. "I've told him a million times: Yamato, my son, stop with that nonsense. Get a peaceful job. Open a flower shop. Work in a library. Sell ice cream. But no, no, he has to go beat people in warehouses and wear black gloves like he's filming a movie."
Yamato rolled his eyes. "I'm not the only one who wears gloves."
Amara blinked, then covered her mouth to hide a smile.
"Look at her, she smiled!" the mother exclaimed like she'd just found a lost wallet. "First smile since she got here! Come on, one more, please. Maybe Yamato will even double your pay."
"Don't you start now," he muttered, staring into his teacup like it might hold the solution to all of life's problems.
But he couldn't help but glance. Couldn't help but look.
That smile. It was brief, small, barely visible, but—enough to make something stir beneath his ribs. Some foolish, unruly emotion that had no business taking root in his heart. His cold, disciplined heart that kept office hours and didn't admit women with afros, a sense of humor, and big… problems. Yes, problems.
Look away, Yamato.
He didn't.
You mustn't look at her like that. You're almost forty. She's… what? Twenty-something?
That's a number. Just a number. Numbers lie. Don't they? Damn numbers.
"What are you thinking about?" his mother asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
"Nothing."
"If that 'nothing' is why you're blushing, you'd better get that 'nothing' out of your head."
Amara smiled again. This time openly. Yamato bit the inside of his cheek.
Okay. Stop staring now. Just because she's smiling doesn't mean she's your friend. You're still scary to her. She still avoids your gaze. Just because she now thinks maybe you're not a psychopath doesn't mean you're some fairytale prince. You're not a fairytale, Yamato. You're… a Netflix series. Rated 18+, with a violence warning.
"Listen, Amara," said the mother, standing up to clear the plates. "You're like my own child to me. And you should know—I'd kick Yamato out of this house myself if he ever hurt you. You have my word."
Amara looked down. "I know. Thank you."
"Now, you two continue talking," she said, leaving the kitchen. "I'm off to water the orchids and pretend I hear nothing."
Silence.
Yamato and Amara were alone. He was still in his pajamas. She, in her cleaning pants and a hoodie that hung loosely off her shoulder. Her curves were, as always, present. Defiant. Unavoidable. Inappropriate.
"Your tea's cold," he said, just to say something.
"I didn't even start drinking it."
"So it never had a chance."
"Just like you," she muttered under her breath, sarcastically.
He looked at her. Confused. Then leaned back and laughed. Openly. Loudly.
"All right, that was a good one."
And then the most dangerous thing happened—they looked at each other without fear.
Or at least… with less fear than before.