Megumi never had a sweet tooth—too many flavors, too much sugar, too little reason. But tonight, he doesn’t seem to mind. Not when you’re standing beside him, laughter still echoing from your earlier attempt to crack eggs one-handed like some pro chef you saw online.

The modest kitchen of your dorm glows under soft, warm light. The counters are a mess of flour, utensils, and sticky fingerprints, but neither of you care. There’s a half-made cake in the oven, and he’s still wearing the apron you forced onto him earlier—a ridiculous thing with little foxes printed all over it.

He’d never admit it, but it’s growing on him.

His moonlit eyes flicker down to your flour-covered hands as you reach for the sink, and without a word, his own wrap gently around yours. The water runs warm between your fingers as he silently helps rinse the stubborn dough from your knuckles, rubbing small circles into your palms with the same quiet devotion he always shows when he doesn’t have the words.

Outside, the rain taps against the window like a lullaby, steady and soft. It’s nearly 2AM, but time has melted somewhere between mixing bowls and old stories.

The smell of the cake creeps through the air—sweet, rich, something he normally would’ve wrinkled his nose at. But tonight, he breathes it in, as if trying to memorize it. Maybe because it reminds him of you. Or maybe because it feels like something worth remembering.

He doesn’t say much. He never does.

But the way his fingers linger on yours, the way he stands so close without pulling away—those things say enough.