Chapter Fifteen Sunday Dinner
Chapter Fifteen
Sunday Dinner
Renji understood he had made a mistake when Reina opened the door holding an apron. She did not greet him. She looked at the paper bag in his hand, then at the clock above the entryway, and said, "You're early."
"Haruki said six."
"It is five fifty-three."
"That is generally considered close to six."
"In this house, it means you're useful."
She held out the apron — white cotton, small red vegetables printed across the front in an arrangement clearly intended to be cheerful.
"No."
Reina pushed it against his chest.
"Shoes off. Kitchen."
"I was invited to dinner."
"Yes."
"Guests do not prepare dinner."
"You stopped being a guest when you treated Haruki's injuries without charging him."
"I am paid by the hospital."
"Not enough."
She released the apron before he had accepted it. Renji caught it automatically. Reina smiled.
"You see? Useful."
Then she turned and walked away. Renji remained in the entrance hall with the apron hanging from one hand.
The Ishida residence was quieter than he expected.
From the street, the property announced restraint rather than wealth — high walls enclosing a traditional house expanded over several generations, each addition designed to appear older than it was.
Timber, stone and dark tile surrounded an interior courtyard where winter-bare branches reached over a shallow pond.
Security was discreet; Renji had counted four visible guards before reaching the door, and there would be at least eight more he had not seen.
Inside, however, the house smelled of roasted fish, soy, ginger and something burning. A man shouted from the kitchen.
"That is not my fault."
Reina shouted back, "You put it under the grill and walked away."
"I was preparing the sauce."
"You were drinking the sauce."
"I was testing it."
Renji looked towards the corridor. Haruki appeared at the far end, wearing dark trousers and a soft grey sweater with the sleeves pushed to his elbows — no jacket, no watch, no visible weapon.
He stopped when he saw Renji. For one second, neither man moved.
Then Haruki's gaze dropped to the apron. Amusement broke openly across his face.
"No."
Renji held up one hand.
"Do not."
"I haven't said anything."
"You were about to."
"I was going to say it suits you."
"It is covered in radishes."
"They may be turnips."
"That does not improve it."
Haruki came closer. The ease of his smile altered something in the entrance hall.
Renji had seen him at the hospital, bloodied and stubborn.
In cafés, carefully ordinary. In his apartment, stripped of authority for one evening.
Here, Haruki belonged — not through dominance, but through familiarity.
He leaned against the wooden frame beside the door and looked at Renji as though finding him there was both unexpected and entirely natural.
"You came," he said.
"You invited me."
"You could have refused."
"I considered it."
"How long?"
"Until Reina called the hospital and informed Akiko I was attending."
Haruki laughed.
"She threatened you with your department head?"
"She employed administrative pressure."
"That sounds more dignified."
"It was not."
Reina's voice came from the kitchen.
"Haruki, stop flirting and bring him in here."
Haruki went very still. Renji looked at him. From deeper in the house, someone laughed loudly enough to be heard through two walls.
"I am not flirting," Haruki called.
"Then you're doing an excellent imitation."
Renji handed Haruki the paper bag.
"I brought dessert."
Haruki accepted it.
"What is it?"
"Pear cake."
"You made it?"
"Yes."
The answer produced a silence Renji did not understand. Haruki looked into the bag as though Renji had revealed a second impossible species.
"You bake."
"Occasionally."
"You told me you cook."
"Baking is cooking governed by measurement."
"That sounds like the only kind you would trust."
Renji untied the apron. Haruki watched.
"Are you actually putting that on?"
"Your household appears to require labour as an entry fee."
"You could leave."
Renji slipped the loop over his head. Haruki's expression softened.
"No," he said. "I don't think you could."
Before Renji could answer, Reina appeared in the corridor. She pointed towards the kitchen.
"Vegetables."
Then at Haruki.
"Dessert in the pantry. Do not touch it."
"I live here."
"And yet the cake is not yours."
Reina disappeared again. Haruki leaned closer to Renji.
"She becomes tyrannical on Sundays."
"Only Sundays?"
"You haven't seen her organise a funeral."
"I have."
Haruki considered that.
"Fair."
The kitchen occupied nearly the entire rear wing of the house.
It had been renovated within the last decade, but the old structure remained visible in thick ceiling beams and a stone hearth no longer used except in winter.
Modern ovens stood beneath shelves crowded with bowls, clay pots and containers labelled in several different handwritings.
Every surface was occupied — steam clouded one window, a pot boiled over on the stove, and two cutting boards had been placed on the central island, though no space remained around them.
Reina stood at one end slicing mushrooms with unnecessary force. Across from her, Hiroshi Ishida was attempting to rescue a tray of blackened aubergine while insisting it had been intended to char.
Renji had met Hiroshi once before, briefly, at the hospital, where he had arrived in a tailored suit with three lawyers and demanded access to Haruki's medical records.
Renji had refused. Hiroshi had called him arrogant.
Renji had agreed. Now he wore loose trousers, slippers and a shirt printed with cranes.
His silver hair was tied at the nape of his neck, and a dishcloth hung over one shoulder.
He looked at Renji. Then at the apron. His expression became solemn.
"They gave you the turnips."
"Radishes," Renji said.
"I've been told both."
"They're radishes," Reina replied.
Hiroshi lowered his voice.
"No one knows."
"I can hear you."
"That has never stopped you before."
Reina pointed her knife at him.
"The aubergine is ruined."
"It is smoky."
"It is carbon."
"Your palate lacks imagination."
"My palate has survival instincts."
Haruki entered carrying Renji's cake.
"Where should this go?"
"Pantry," Reina said.
Hiroshi looked at the bag.
"What is it?"
"Pear cake."
"Did you buy it?"
"Renji made it."
Hiroshi turned slowly.
"You cook?"
"Why does everyone find that surprising?"
Hiroshi looked him up and down.
"You seem like a man who considers eating an interruption."
"I consider inefficient eating an interruption."
"See?"
Reina swept chopped mushrooms into a bowl.
"Hiroshi, start the rice again."
"There is nothing wrong with the rice."
A sharp smell rose from the cooker. Everyone looked towards it. Hiroshi sighed.
"The rice has developed character."
"The rice has burned."
"Only underneath."
"That is where rice is."
Haruki placed the cake in the pantry and returned. He took the burned pot from Hiroshi before the older man could object.
"I'll do it."
"You always use too much water," Reina said.
"And yet nobody dies."
"An uninspiring standard."
Renji stood near the island holding the vegetables Reina had placed before him — carrots, daikon, spring onions, a bowl of lotus root soaking in water. He looked at the knives, all sharpened recently. Good quality. Well maintained. At least someone in the house respected tools.
"What am I making?" he asked.
Reina glanced over.
"Kinpira."
"You've cut the burdock too thick."
She stopped. Hiroshi smiled. Haruki turned away, though Renji saw his shoulders move.
"No, I haven't," Reina said, looking down at her cutting board.
Renji selected a knife.
"The pieces will cook unevenly."
"They're fine."
"They are three different widths."
"It's rustic."
"That is usually what people say after making an error."
Hiroshi began laughing. Reina pointed the knife at Renji.
"You have been here four minutes."
"Yes."
"And you have already criticised my cutting."
"It was visibly inconsistent."
Haruki leaned beside the rice cooker.
"Do you want me to show you where we keep the emergency medical supplies?"
"I know where they are."
Reina looked offended.
"Why?"
"Your security chief showed me."
"When?"
"After you threatened to break Ken's wrist during physical therapy."
"He was being irritating."
"He was injured."
"He was still irritating."
Renji began cutting the daikon. The knife moved cleanly through the root. Reina watched the first several pieces fall into identical matchsticks. Her expression tightened. Hiroshi leaned over to inspect them.
"Oh, he's staying."
"That has not been decided," Reina said.
"It has now. Look at those."
"I can cut like that."
"You don't."
"I choose not to."
"Rustic," Renji said.
Haruki laughed — not the controlled breath of amusement he used in public, but a real laugh, warm and unguarded.
Renji's hand paused above the cutting board.
The sound entered him unexpectedly. He looked up.
Haruki stood with one hand resting on the counter, smiling at him.
For a moment, the kitchen narrowed around that expression.
Then Reina slapped another carrot onto Renji's board.
"Since you're so talented."
The moment ended. Renji looked down. He resumed cutting.
There were rules for Sunday dinner. Renji learned them gradually because no one had thought to explain them before he violated the first.
"Kael believes the warehouse was used as an observation—"
Three voices interrupted him.
"No business."
Renji looked up. Reina, Hiroshi and Haruki had spoken at once. Hiroshi pointed a wooden spoon towards a carved plaque above the kitchen door. Renji had assumed it was decorative. It read: NO BUSINESS UNTIL DESSERT.
"This is literal?" Renji asked.
"Very," Haruki said.
"There is an active threat."
"There is always an active threat," Reina replied.
"That does not make it less relevant."
"It makes the rule necessary."
Hiroshi tasted the sauce and added more mirin.
"My brother began it."