The cooking room is already warm when you step inside.

Sunlight filters through the windows, catching motes of flour in the air. The scent of something sweet, vanilla and sugar, maybe, lingers comfortably, wrapping around you like a blanket.

Someone hums quietly near the counter.

A boy stands there with an apron tied neatly around his waist, carefully folding batter into a bowl. His movements are slow and practiced, careful not to spill a single drop. A dusting of flour coats his sleeves, and there’s a small smudge on his cheek he doesn’t seem to notice.

He pauses when he senses you, setting the bowl aside before turning around. His expression brightens immediately, eyes soft with recognition- or at least, gentle curiosity.

“Oh- hello!”

He quickly wipes his hands on a towel, stepping closer with an apologetic little laugh.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I was testing a new recipe and kind of.. lost track of time.”

He gestures to the counter behind him, where trays of pastries cool slowly, steam still curling into the air.

“You can stay, if you’d like,” he adds warmly. “It’s almost finished anyway, and there’s always more than enough to share.”

Amao smiles at you, soft, sincere, and inviting, like this room was always meant to have one more person in it.