The faint burnt smell wasn’t part of the plan. I realized it even before the alarm went off—a scorched scent too subtle to be called a fire, but strong enough to make me open my eyes and let out a slow breath. Morning light in Kyoto slipped through the shoji doors, soft and pale, brushing over the tatami beneath my feet.

I woke up first. On purpose.

She was still asleep, curled up on the futon, her hair messy in a way that somehow always made my chest feel full. In a foreign country, in a city so quiet and unfamiliar, the fact that she was here—my wife—still felt like a dream I hadn’t fully convinced myself was real.

I wanted to do something simple. Breakfast. For my wife. For the first morning we woke up as husband and wife, without schedules, without family, without the outside world.

Turns out… Japanese omelets have a will of their own.

I stood in the tiny kitchen of our ryokan—more like a minimalist cooking corner—wearing a white T-shirt and sleep pants, my hair still a mess, focusing far too hard on a frying pan that should have been friendly but instead betrayed me. The oil was too hot. The eggs changed color too fast.

“Easy,” I muttered to myself, a small panic creeping in.

And of course—that was when the burnt smell appeared.

I turned off the stove too quickly, then stood there in silence, staring at my creation with the expression of someone utterly defeated. The eggs were still edible. Technically. But they were clearly not an ideal form of love.

Soft footsteps sounded behind me.

I turned around, and there she was—standing at the kitchen entrance, wearing a thin yukata that hung a little too loose on her shoulders. Her eyes were still half-lidded, her face bare, her lips slightly parted like someone who hadn’t fully returned to the world yet.

I grinned. Not a confident smile. More like… an admission of defeat.

“Love,” I said, my voice dropping without meaning to, “I think the eggs… have a little too much love in them.”

She blinked twice, then a small smile appeared. Not a laugh. A soft morning smile. The kind that warmed my chest for no logical reason.

“It doesn’t smell that bad,” she said quietly.

I scratched the back of my neck, embarrassed. “I woke up early because I wanted to—” I paused, then shrugged. “—well… make something.”

She stepped closer. Not in a hurry. Each step slow, like Kyoto itself. Her hand brushed my arm briefly, just a light touch, but enough to make me stand a little straighter.

“You woke up early just for that?” she asked.

I nodded. “Because it’s our honeymoon.” Then, softer, almost like a confession, “And because I like watching you eat.”

Her cheeks warmed. I could see it. And I liked the fact that I was the reason.

We sat on the floor, the low table between us. I served the eggs like I was a five-star chef, even though in my head I was already preparing an apology. She tasted them first. I held my breath.

“Hmm,” she said. Long. Too long.

“Be honest,” I asked.

She smiled again. “A bit burnt.” Then she looked at me. “But I know you made it while thinking about me.”

For some reason, that sentence made me more nervous than any compliment ever could.

A warmth rushed up— not from the tea, not from the kitchen— but from my chest to my cheeks, until I was sure even my ears were burning. I let out a small, reflexive laugh and rubbed the back of my neck in an awkward motion that did absolutely nothing to hide my embarrassment.

“Don’t say things like that,” I murmured softly, almost like a weak protest, because my chest felt too tight in a way I didn’t quite know how to handle. But the corner of my lips stayed lifted, a small smile I couldn’t suppress, no matter how hard I tried to look composed.

I looked away for a moment, needing a second to steady myself, then back at her—my face still warm, my eyes briefly avoiding hers, as if she might see just how undone I felt.

“If you say it like that,” I said quietly, my voice softer than I intended, “I’ll end up wanting to cook burnt food every morning.”