If you touch it, there is no going back. ——The sincere and cruel love of a man who does not confess, Chapter 7

[Chapter 7: The Barrier of White Gloves]

After finishing the dishes after lunch, I wiped the water from my hands.
I folded the dishcloth and reached for my white gloves.

At that moment, I made eye contact with her as she stood in front of the refrigerator.

"Thank you for doing the dishes, Sebastian."

"Not at all. It is my usual duty."

As I answered and reached for the gloves, I noticed her gaze was directed not at the white fabric, but at my hands themselves.

"...Wait a moment."

I stopped my hand.

"Before you put on your white gloves, could you let me see them for a moment? Your hands, Sebastian."

"My hands, you say?"

"Yes. I don't really get to see them very often."

It was a strange request.
It was not unpleasant, but it was difficult to handle.

The white gloves were meant to keep the part of me that might touch her within the bounds of my duties.

The act of showing my bare hands held more meaning than necessary.

"If it is just to look, I do not mind."

When I told her this, she opened the drawer under the sink and took out a pair of thin kitchen gloves.

She put them on quickly and turned back to me.

"I am ready."

"...Ready for what, might I ask?"

"Ready so that I don't have to touch you directly."

I hadn't expected you to go that far in your preparations.

Resigned, I hold out my right hand.

She was looking at my fingertips with a more serious expression than I had anticipated.

The shape of my nails.
The lines of my knuckles.
The shadows cast on the back of my hand.

These are hands I have kept groomed not for appearance, but to ensure they remain steady.

As if to confirm this, she quietly let her gaze wander over them.

“Even though it’s a place no one sees, you keep them very neatly groomed.”

“I was taught when I was young. That the hands that touch one’s master must never be unkempt.”

She raised her gaze from my hands.

“...I imagine it’s not just your hands, is it?”

I paused for a moment.

I knew she wasn't talking about the surface.

“Yes. It is not just about grooming, but about the very way one should be as a butler.”

She gave a small nod.

It was a nod that seemed to accept those words as they were, without brushing them off with a joke as she usually would.

I picked up the white gloves once more.

I felt uneasy standing there with my bare hands any longer than necessary.

However, she spoke again.

“Please, show me you putting them on as well.”

“...The white gloves, you mean?”

Yes.

I hesitated for just a fleeting moment.

Even so, I could find no reason to refuse.

Then.

I slowly put it on my right hand.

I widen the opening of the fabric and slide my fingers in one by one. I do not rush, I do not force it, I simply smooth out the wrinkles.

I do the same for my left hand.

Finally, as I lightly press both hands together in front of my chest, my breathing finally settles.

She says quietly.

The way you put on white gloves is like a ritual, isn't it?

A ritual, you say?

Yes. Like a transition to prepare for work.

At those words, the depths of my heart stirred faintly.

She saw right through me.

White gloves are not merely a part of a uniform. —They are a boundary.

She had casually guessed that truth.

It was just after I had smiled bitterly in my heart.

Sebastian, may I put on your white gloves?

I lost my reply for a moment.

…Mine, you say?

Yes. Is that not allowed?

It is not that it is not allowed.
—You are too defenseless.

I paused for a moment, and instead of the ones I was wearing, I took out a spare pair of white gloves from the inner pocket of the suit jacket hanging on the chair.

If you would like these.

Thank you very much.

She accepted them happily and began to put them on carefully, one hand at a time.

Naturally, the size did not fit.

The fingertips were too long, and the white fabric remained loose and baggy.

They are big, aren't they, Sebastian's gloves?

Saying that, she smiled a little.

They do not suit her.

And yet, I could not look away.

I am not touching her.
I am not even touching her through the same fabric.
Even so,
she has stepped into my inner sanctum.

I had thought that white gloves were for not touching.
That they were fabric meant to maintain distance and uphold one's role.

But now, that whiteness is not protecting me at all.

Before long, she carefully removed the gloves, folded them neatly, and placed them on the table.

Thank you for lending them to me, Sebastian.

…Not at all.

She smiled as if satisfied and returned to the study just like that.

Looking down at the white gloves left behind, I could not move for a while.

There is a line that a single layer of cloth cannot protect.
It was not the distance that wavered.

——Today, I found out.

If only the wavering of what I was supposed to protect had been conveyed.