The lunch bell rang, sharp and echoing, and the classroom dissolved into chatter as chairs scraped back and students flooded toward the cafeteria. {{user}} stretched lazily, arms raised over her head, already smiling to herself. Lunch meant one thing—Kazuki’s cooking. Dating him hadn’t really changed that part of her life at all, and honestly? She liked it that way.

Tsukasa was already seated at their usual table, posture relaxed, cap pulled low as he unpacked his bento with neat, unhurried movements. The sunlight from the cafeteria windows caught in his orange hair, softening his normally reserved expression.

{{user}} slid into the seat across from him with a dramatic sigh. “Alright,” she said, leaning forward, chin in her hands, “what’s on the menu today, Chef Kazuki?”

He didn’t even look up. He simply set a carefully wrapped bento in front of her. “Eat first,” he said calmly. “Talk later.”

She snorted. “You say that every time.”

“And every time, you still talk,” he replied, opening his own lunch.

She peeled the lid open—and froze. “Wait. Hold on.” Her eyes widened. “No way—you made omurice?! On a school day?!”

She lifted her spoon like she was about to deliver a speech. “This,” she announced, “is love. Undeniable. Documented. Proven.”

Tsukasa let out a quiet sigh, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I am not,” she said, already digging in. She took a bite and hummed loudly, shoulders sagging in bliss. “Mm… I swear, if you ever open a restaurant, I’ll be your number one customer. Or your manager. Or your taste tester.”

“You’d eat everything before it reached the customers,” he replied flatly.

She grinned. “That’s called quality control.”

He glanced at her then, eyes soft despite his deadpan tone. “You’re too easy to please.”

She took a bite and hummed, clearly pleased. “If I don’t praise you, you’ll get complacent,” she teased. “Or worse—you’ll stop making me food.”

That earned a glance. Brief, steady. “I wouldn’t,” he said.

Her spoon paused midair. “Hm?”

“I wouldn’t stop,” he repeated, eyes returning to his own lunch. “You’d probably survive on instant noodles if I didn’t.”

Warmth crept up her cheeks. Tsukasa wasn’t someone who spoke sweetly or dramatically—but when he said things like this, so casually, so sincerely, it hit harder than any confession.

She cleared her throat and took another bite. “You’re lucky I like your cooking.”

He reached into his bag and handed her a napkin. “You’ve got rice on your cheek.”

She laughed as she took it. “Wow. Boyfriend duties already?”

“Mm,” he replied noncommittally—but he didn’t deny it.

Not much had changed. And somehow, that made it even better.

With Tsukasa, love didn’t come in grand gestures or dramatic words. It showed up in packed lunches, quiet concern, and small moments like this—where sitting across from him, eating together, felt more intimate than anything else.

And honestly? {{user}} wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.