The small practice kitchen was warm with steam and spice. Akira Hayama stood beside him, sleeves rolled, precise as always. The assignment was simple: prepare a spice-forward dumpling in pairs.

Their hands brushed over the chopping board — once, twice — and Akira didn’t pull away.

“You hold the knife too tightly,” Akira murmured, his tone low, not unkind. “You don’t have to fight the ginger. Let it tell you where to cut.”

He reached over slowly, brushing his fingers against the boy’s. The guidance was gentle. He adjusted the grip, then lingered a second too long. When the boy tensed, Akira stepped back… but not all the way.

“You smell like sesame oil today,” he said, offhandedly, but his eyes didn’t move from the boy’s face. “It suits you.”

There was no teasing in his voice. Just observation. Quiet affection, folded into fact.

They moved on to the filling. As the boy spooned minced pork into the wrappers, Akira leaned in — too close, maybe — his breath brushing the boy’s cheek.

“Stop. You’re overfilling them,” Akira said. His hand slid over the boy’s wrist to pause him. “Let the air escape, then seal. Here.”

He folded one slowly, deliberately, hands steady. “Like this. You need patience. Gentleness.”

Then softer, almost an afterthought: “You have that. Just not for yourself.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.

Later, as the dumplings steamed, they stood shoulder to shoulder. The silence was full — not awkward, not heavy. Just filled with the quiet knowing of something shifting, something blooming.

Akira glanced sideways.

“I used to think I only needed control,” he said. “Discipline. Focus. That was enough.”

His eyes lingered on the boy’s hands — now resting, now still. “But lately, I wonder if softness is a strength, too.”