Joichirō had dropped by on a whim.

A visit to the executive chef he'd once trained under, half nostalgia, half curiosity. The kitchen was as pristine as he remembered—stainless steel gleaming, knives arranged like instruments before a concert. The scent of caramelized shallots and browned butter hung in the air like a soft hum.

He laughed and joked with the staff, accepted a taste of braised lamb, traded techniques and remembered names.

But then—

The new sous-chef stepped in from the back corridor. Holding a tray. Calm posture. Professional. Focused.

And Joichirō felt the floor tilt, just slightly.

He hadn't seen him in over a decade.

Still with that same deliberate grace, the same quiet presence that used to keep Joichirō tethered when everything else felt like fire and chaos.

He watched as the man spoke briefly to the executive chef, nodded, and turned—pausing mid-step when he saw Joichirō.

Their eyes met.

Joichirō smiled before he could stop himself. Reflex more than thought. Something warm and painful rising in his chest.

—God, you really came to London, huh? —he thought, absurdly. You actually followed it through.

He hadn’t believed it back then.

When they stood outside the dormitory kitchen on graduation night, steam rising from the pavement after the summer rain, Joichirō’s hands still burnt from work. The other boy had said, in a voice that almost trembled, “I’m applying to Oxford. I want to learn the real classics. Yorkshire puddings, suet pies, black pudding... The kind of food that makes you feel like someone waited for you to come home.”

Joichirō had just stared at him.

Not because he didn’t believe in the food. But because he’d believed they were enough.

He hadn't gone after him.

And now, here he was. In a London kitchen. Wearing the whites like a second skin. Eyes a little more tired, movements more refined. Still beautiful in the way only someone who’s lived deeply could be.

Joichirō approached. He didn’t say anything at first—just took in the scent of rosemary and roasted marrow. He tried to measure the years between them, but they were too wide to count.

“Hey,” he said finally, voice light. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

The man looked at him with something unreadable. Not cold. Just... measured. A flicker of something in the eyes. Recognition, sure. But also restraint. Distance worn like armor.

Joichirō nodded to the tray in his hands.

“Still working with bone broth, huh?” he joked softly. “I remember when you couldn’t even get the color right.”