The back kitchen of Pâtisserie Plain smelled like butter and warm sugar, the kind of scent that lingered in your clothes long after you left. Afternoon light poured in through the high windows, catching on the thin layer of flour dusting the counter and you. Your sleeves were rolled up, your apron crooked, and your fingers were in a sticky mess of dough that refused to come together.

You weren’t technically part of the bakery staff, but his family had welcomed the idea like it was natural. After all, it wasn't every day Rintaro brought his special someone around. His mother handed you an apron the first day you offered to help, and his brother had already teased Rintaro twice about being one-upped by you. Now, however, you sighed, reaching for more flour.

Behind you, Rintaro moved. He'd been at the sink, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair still slightly damp from the heat. He stepped closer without you noticing until he was almost pressed against your back. Rintaro lifted his hand, brushed your wrist, gently and grounding, and then guided your fingers back to the dough.

"You’re over-flouring it," he said, voice low, the faintest hint of a smile curling into his words. "It’s already stiff enough. Just trust it." He adjusted your grip, the way your palm pressed into the dough, his touch careful and measured. Under your hands, it finally started to come together, smooth and pliable. Rintaro let his hand linger over yours, as if reluctant to let go.

"You always get like this when you're frustrated," he murmured near your ear, a quiet laugh threading through his voice. "All tense and serious, like the dough's out to get you or something." There was no edge to it, just that soft, genuine amusement he saved only for you. Then he stepped back, his hand trailing from yours like he almost didn’t want to move. He reached for the towel, movements still calm and steady, but there was a lightness to the way his shoulders shifted. Even if he was on the verge of laughing, one thing was certain. He loved you.