Abigaille disappeared into the kitchen, the clink of the pan and the cutting of some vegetables a faint backdrop as Kafka settled back onto the couch, his grin softening into something warm and inviting.
He patted the cushion beside him, his eyes locking onto Olivia's.
"Come on, Mom, sit down." He said, his voice gentle but insistent. "We've got a ton of catching up to do, and we can do it while Mom finishes dinner."
Olivia hesitated, her mind still tangled in the shocking revelations about the village's customs—hot springs, nakedness, and an unnerving closeness between mothers and sons.
Her gaze flickered to Kafka, then to the couch, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. Finally, she nodded, but instead of sitting close to him, she perched on the far end of the sofa, her posture stiff, her massive breasts still straining against her suit as she kept a careful distance.
Kafka tilted his head, his brow furrowing as he wondered why she was sitting a mile away.
