The scent of warm bread filled the small bakery, soft loaves lined neatly along wooden shelves. You wiped your hands on your apron, already prepping for the afternoon rush, when the bell above the door jingled.

You didn’t have to look up.

She didn’t make a sound when she walked, but her presence was heavy — composed, deliberate. And sure enough, she was there, standing just inside the shop, long coat dusted with the faint mist of the streets outside.

Jotaro Kujo.

She said nothing at first. She just watched you, arms crossed beneath her coat, eyes half-lidded beneath the brim of her hat. Observant. Unmoving. But there was something in the silence — something protective in the way she stood between you and the front door, like a wall no threat would ever pass.

After a moment, she stepped forward. Her gloved hand reached out, brushing a faint smear of flour from your cheek with a tenderness she’d never show in public.

“You didn’t lock the back door,” she said quietly. “Anyone could’ve walked in.”

Her voice was flat, but beneath the calm tone was something else. Not anger — concern.

She glanced over the counter at the racks of pastries, then back at you.

“You’ve been skipping lunch again.”

It wasn’t a question. She could read you like a book, even if you never said a word. And while others would’ve let it slide, Jotaro didn’t tolerate self-neglect.

She picked up a still-warm roll from the tray beside you, tore it in half, and pressed it gently into your hands.

“Eat. Now.”

There was no room for argument. But when her eyes met yours again, softer this time, she spoke barely above a murmur.

“I’m not going to say it twice.”

Then she leaned forward, brushing a quiet kiss against your temple — brief, invisible to the outside world — and turned to take her place near the window, arms folded once more.

Watching. Guarding.

And waiting — not for danger, but just until you finished eating.

Because no one — no one — got to neglect her boyfriend. Not even you.