Chapter 42
The dinner ended in a subtle atmosphere.
The exquisite dishes on the table seemed to have lost some of their flavor. The butler and the head maid occasionally met each other's eyes, and with tacit exploration, they swept between me and Atobe.
Only Xiaokong, with his head buried in his own food bowl and his tail wagging happily, was completely unaware of the invisible tension.
I finished my meal so quickly that I almost lost my appetite, whispered "I'm done", and hurriedly got up and left the table, almost escaping into the guest room upstairs.
In the next few days, Keigo Atobe continued to perform his duties as a "tutor" as usual, with precision and efficiency, which was beyond doubt.
The knowledge points were imparted in a clear and organized manner, just like the training menu of the Hyotei tennis club.
However, the awkwardness that had built up in the study room hadn't dissipated. Instead, it formed a thin layer of ice between us. He was more restrained than ever, maintaining a near-perfect, impeccable social distance.
I was more cautious, trying not to make direct eye contact with him, and trying to be concise and accurate when answering questions.
There was an indescribable sense of alienation in the air, mixed with a kind of silent tension, which made every time we spent in the same room seem a little long.
That afternoon, the lead-gray sky finally could not bear the moisture, and the winter rain fell continuously.
Rain pounded against the huge French windows, forming a hazy gray curtain that blocked out the outside world. The study was well-heated, insulating it from the damp and cold, leaving only the rustling sound of the rain, which unexpectedly brought a sense of enveloping security.
Perhaps the days of intensive tutoring had finally paid off, or perhaps the sound of rain had helped calm people down a bit, and by evening, today's progress had been completed ahead of schedule.
I secretly breathed a sigh of relief, and my tense nerves finally got a moment to breathe.
After washing up, I put on soft and comfortable home clothes, and used the hair dryer to make my wet long hair fluffy and dry.
After returning to the guest room, I did not rest immediately. Instead, I looked around the room prepared for me again. It was no longer the standard guest room it originally was.
The pale blue bed curtains draped softly, their delicate pear blossom embroidery nearly identical to the one in my bedroom back home in China. Every furnishing, every decoration, every color and pattern of the bedding all silently matched my preferences.
Opening the wardrobe, you will see neatly hung clothes, most of which have subtle Chinese elements.
Even the bathroom toiletries are from the familiar Barrett fragrance collection, their cool and gentle scent filling the air. This silent, meticulous attention to detail softens a corner of my heart.
"Knock, knock, knock..." A slight scratching sound interrupted my thoughts.
It’s Xiaokong.
As soon as I opened the door, its furry head popped in, and it gently grabbed my trouser leg with its mouth and eagerly pulled it out. Its intentions were too obvious.
I followed its force and was "dragged" all the way through the corridor, heading straight for the study.
The door was ajar, and Xiaokong skillfully pushed it open with his head.
As expected, Atobe was already there.
He had just showered and changed into dark blue velvet housecoat, less aggressive than usual and more at homely. He leaned back on a large single sofa, a hardcover book in hand, the warm yellow reading light casting a soft shadow on his sharply defined profile.
Hearing the noise, he looked up, his eyes first landing on Xiaokong, who was eagerly wagging his tail. He nodded in understanding and casually put down his book. Xiaokong immediately and happily pounced at his feet, skillfully took a chew toy from the wicker basket beside the sofa, and contentedly lay on the carpet to chew it.
Looking at the smooth and tacit interaction between the man and the dog, an idea suddenly came to my mind.
During all the time I've lived in this huge mansion, I've never seen Atobe's parents except for the busy housekeeper and maids.
The butler once mentioned casually during a chat that because of their global business, the master and his wife were not in Japan all year round, and that the huge mansion was only occupied by Master Atobe all year round.
It turns out that this magnificent palace-like home may just be a larger and more spacious residence for him.
A sense of loneliness, a feeling of sympathy, quietly spread.
Now that Xiaokong had already "dragged" me to the door, turning away would seem pretentious and contrived. I gathered myself and walked in. "Excuse me," my voice echoed clearly in the quiet of the study on the rainy night. "I'd like to borrow a book."
Atobe raised his chin and pointed to the huge bookshelf that almost took up an entire wall: "Whatever you want." His voice was a little deeper than usual, with a sense of relaxation after a shower.
There are a vast number of books on the bookshelf, ranging from thick economics monographs to exquisite art albums.
My fingertips slid across the spine of the book and finally stopped on a book with a simple binding, "Selected Tang and Song Poems".
Pulling it out, the paper carried the unique, dry smell of an old book. I walked to the other side of the study and sat down on a smaller sofa chair, trying not to make any noise.
The gentle purring of Xiaokong gnawing on his toy and the steady patter of rain outside the window became the only background sound. I gathered my half-dried hair over one shoulder and turned the pages of my book. The scent of ink mixed with the air of paper washed over me, transporting me back to a familiar yet distant context.
Time flows quietly with the turning of pages and the rhythm of raindrops.
My nerves, tense for days, gradually relaxed in this rare tranquility. The only sounds in the study were the occasional rustling of my pages, Xiaokong's contented breathing, and the extremely soft, almost inaudible sound of Atobe turning pages.
A strange calm descended, dispelling the awkwardness and alienation that had been lingering.
"Which sentence do you like best?" Atobe's voice suddenly rang out, breaking the long silence. It was not abrupt, but rather like a stone thrown into a calm lake.
I looked up. He had already closed his book, his gaze fixed on the poetry collection in my hands, a pure, nonjudgmental inquiry. The warm yellow light fell on his eyes, reflecting a glimmer that was different from the sharp edge on the court.
I was slightly startled, and my eyes subconsciously swept across the heavy rain outside the window.
Almost instantly, a word popped into my mind.
"At this moment," I whispered, my fingertips touching the familiar line on the page, "'When will we cut the candle in the west window together and talk about the night rain in Bashan?'"
"When shall we cut the candle together in the west window?" He repeated, his pronunciation a little awkward, but each syllable was clear and accurate, revealing a sense of seriousness.
"Well, it's 'Night Rain Sent North' by the Tang Dynasty poet Li Shangyin," I explained, trying to use Japanese he could understand. "It's probably about him being in a foreign land, on a rainy night like tonight, thinking of someone far away."
I paused, considering the words, "'Cutting the candle together in the west window' is imagining the scene of our future reunion."
"At night, by the window, the two of them cut the length of the candle wick to make the light brighter. While doing this ordinary little thing, they chatted about things like the rain tonight and the things they had experienced since they separated."
I looked out the window again, where the rain streaked across the glass. “Just like now, quietly listening to the rain and talking calmly.”
The study became quiet again, with only the slight snoring coming from Xiaokong's throat.
Atobe didn't respond immediately. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze seeming to penetrate the hazy mist on the glass, into the deeper rainy night. The light cast a faint shadow on the side of his straight nose, making his jawline even more distinct.
"Trimming the candle wick..." He repeated the word in a low voice, his voice a little blurred against the background of the rain. "It's a very subtle daily action."
He turned his gaze back to me.
Something incredibly subtle seemed to stir in those eyes, like a pebble dropped into a deep pond, creating a nearly invisible ripple. "But it sounds," he paused, his voice lowered, almost like a soliloquy, "very warm."
The tip of my heart seemed to be hit by something, neither light nor heavy, and then it was wrapped in a warm current.
He understood.
It's not just the literal meaning, but also the deep desire for ordinary companionship and sharing trivial moments hidden deep in the ancient poems.
The winter rain outside the window is still continuous, bringing a damp and cold chill, but in this corner, the soft light, the sound of turning pages, and the breathing of the puppy at my feet have built a small, warm harbor that is isolated from the wind and rain.
"Yes," I lowered my eyes, my gaze falling back on the familiar ink on the page, my fingertips unconsciously stroking the rough edge of the paper, "It is very warm."
The voice was so soft that it almost melted into the sound of rain.
We were only a few steps apart, each immersed in the world of pages, yet miraculously sharing the same quiet air.
The awkwardness and deliberately maintained sense of distance that had lingered for days seemed to be quietly soaked and softened by the warmth of the rainy night during this moment of interpreting the ancient poem, and settled into a deeper, indescribable tranquility.
The poetry collection in my hand seemed to become heavier and heavier, and the lead type gradually blurred in front of my eyes, forming a sea of ink.
The fatigue from days of tense nerves and intense tutoring was completely released in this rare moment of relaxation. The warm light enveloped my body, and the monotonous, persistent sound of rain outside the window became the most effective lullaby.
My consciousness drifted away like a feather in warm water, slowly dispersing and sinking. Suddenly, the strength in my fingertips weakened, and the heavy poetry collection slipped quietly from my lap, landing on the thick carpet with a soft "plop".
The sound startled me awake, my heart racing. I frantically leaned over to pick up the fallen book.
Just as he leaned forward, his shoulders sank slightly.
A thin blanket with an exceptionally soft texture, a clean and refreshing scent of soapberry and a very faint, elusive, cold wood tone, fell silently on my shoulders.
That scent... was the almost dissipated aftertaste left by a certain aftershave that Atobe usually used.
My movements froze in mid-air.
Her fingertips were inches from the fallen page, but her gaze was fixed on the sudden warmth that descended upon her shoulder. The delicate fibers of dark grey cashmere pressed against the skin of her neck, quickly dispelling the slight chill brought on by the startled awakening.
I held my breath involuntarily.
I could clearly feel a pair of eyes on my back, steady and quiet, without any urging or explanation. I didn't dare look up, as if any slight movement would disturb this sudden barrier and break this warm silence.
My heart began to beat irregularly in my chest, not because of fear, but because another strange emotion with a subtle tremor quietly spread.
The blanket that fell on his shoulders still carried the warmth from his fingertips, and the cold woody scent lingered faintly at the tip of his nose.
My fingertips hovered an inch above the poetry book, and I could almost feel the warmth of my fingertips on the soft pile of the carpet.
However, the expected action of picking up the book was not completed. A bony hand, with undeniable strength yet extremely restrained gentleness, grasped my shoulder.
The warmth penetrated the thin fabric of my housecoat, clearly imprinted on my skin. It wasn't just a touch, it was a grip, with a sense of reality that was almost confirmation.
I froze in place, even my breathing stopped.
His sight could only fall on the pages of the book spread out on the carpet, and the words "When will we cut the candle together in the west window" were written in ink, swaying before his eyes.
He didn't let go immediately, nor did he take another step. Time seemed to freeze, with only the sound of rain outside the window and Xiaokong's even breathing proving the flow of the world.
There was a tense silence in the air, which was even more frightening than the previous tranquility.
Finally, his deep voice rang close to my ear. It was no longer the usual calm and controlled voice, but was extremely low, with a hoarseness I had never heard before, as if he was trying hard to endure something, and as if he was carefully coaxing me:
"Xiaoyin..."
"Don't be afraid of me."
The earnestness and a hint of imperceptible fatigue in the voice were like tiny needles, gently piercing my heart.
"Don't hide from me." He repeated, tightening his grip on my shoulders for a moment before forcing himself to relax, as if reminding himself of some boundary. "I just want to... see you all the time."
These words were like a piece of red-hot charcoal thrown into the lake of my heart.
The deliberate distance he'd maintained over the past few days, the vague sense of alienation and restraint, all suddenly revealed their answer. He firmly suppressed his surging emotions within a container called "respect."
Because of the line I drew - eighteen years old.
"I know your rules." His voice became even more hoarse, and his warm breath brushed the skin on the side of my neck, stirring a slight shudder. "Not before I'm eighteen..." He paused, as if those few words weighed a thousand pounds, yet he uttered them with incomparable determination, "I'll wait."
"I'll wait until you're eighteen."
This almost confession of feelings made my entire chest swell, and a sour and hot current rushed into my eyes.
My heart was beating violently and the sound of blood rushing was roaring in my eardrums.
With my skills, breaking free from such a simple grip was easy. The force on my shoulders even had a kind of self-restraint, and I could break free with just a little effort.
But... the body didn't move.
Her fingertips curled up and rested against the soft blanket.
Why would I want to escape? The deliberate avoidance of gazes and the deliberate distance I'd maintained these past few days, when I think about it now, there's a hint of awkwardness and loss that I hadn't even noticed.
The weight on my shoulders suddenly dropped.
A warm and firm touch gently pressed against the crook of my neck—his slightly lowered chin. This action carried a strange sense of dependence and vulnerability, completely different from his usual arrogant demeanor.
Then I heard him laugh softly.
The laughter was muffled, shaking my tightly packed bones. It carried a sigh of relief, a hint of self-mockery. It was soft, but like a pebble dropped into a still lake, it sent ripples through my heart.
I suddenly closed my eyes, my long eyelashes trembling violently, trying to shut back the surging emotions. My throat was tight, and my voice trembled uncontrollably, but I tried hard to respond to him clearly:
"I'm... not afraid of you."
Every word seemed to be squeezed out of my chest, carrying a scorching heat. "I won't run away." I paused, as if using up all the courage I had at the moment, and gently uttered the promise, "I'm here."
As the words fell, the force on his shoulders seemed to tighten for a moment.
In the crook of her neck, his jaw, which was resting against hers, moved slightly, like a silent sigh, but also like a deeper, more satisfying closeness.
The thick warmth in the study, along with his weight on my shoulders and the comforting yet heart-pounding scent coming from him, wrapped us in a small, isolated cocoon.
The line called "rules" still existed, but at this moment, it was silently stained by a more turbulent and primitive emotion. The blanket was softly piled on my shoulders, and the warmth was so strong that it made my heart tremble.
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