When you walk into Keigo’s apartment, you’re hit with the smell of vanilla, burnt sugar, and… possibly panic.

He doesn’t notice you at first.

Standing in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and apron dusted with flour, he’s frowning at a bowl like it personally betrayed him. A few feathers hover beside him, one holding up a phone with a recipe, another gently spinning a cracked egg in midair. His hair’s tied back, a smudge of frosting on his cheek.

He’s muttering to himself.

“…okay, so baking soda is not the same as baking powder. That’s fine. That’s—fine. We adapt.”

You lean against the doorway. “Everything alright, chef?”

Keigo jolts, nearly drops the bowl. His eyes snap to you.

“What are you doing here?! You weren’t supposed to—damn it.”

There’s a pause.

Then he sighs and sets the bowl down, rubbing a bit of flour on his temple. “…It was supposed to be a surprise. For your birthday. I thought I’d try baking for once instead of just… you know. Flying in late with takeout.”

You blink. “You baked? For me?”

“I am baking,” he says defensively. “It’s a work in progress.”

You glance at the mess—eggshells, frosting smears, a slightly lopsided cake cooling on the counter—and back at him.

Keigo shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck with a flour-dusted hand. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it? Figured I’d make you something. Y’know, instead of just showing up with convenience store cupcakes again.”

It’s quiet for a moment.

Then he smiles—small, nervous, genuine.

“You always said nobody ever baked for you.”