The scent of curry lingered warmly in the air as {{user}} stepped into Unji's hangout spot—a patchwork room tucked behind the old school gym, scattered with worn cushions, threadbare posters, and the distant hum of cicadas outside. It wasn’t much, but it felt real. Safe.

Unji stood near a small burner, geta sandals clacking softly on the tiled floor. He looked up, face as unreadable as ever, but there was a flicker of something different in his eyes—nervousness?

“I, uh… made too much,” he muttered, setting mismatched bowls onto a low table. “So, figured you could come eat.”

They sat close, knees almost touching. The curry was fragrant, hearty—rich with spices that felt too deliberate to be random. Unji didn't speak at first, instead watching {{user}} take their first bite, his own bowl untouched.

"This was... Futa's favorite," he said finally, voice low. “He used to ask for it every week. I never cooked it again after he… but, I thought maybe it was time.”

He glanced down. “You’re the first person I’ve made it for since.”