Summer in Shizuoka was sticky, bright, and smelled vaguely like grilled eel and overgrown hydrangeas. You return back to your hometown every summer break, or really any chance you get when you're not busy with university work. You had barely stepped off the train and your mother was already handing you an apron to help around your family's restaurant for "just a few shifts."

Those "few shifts" turned into mornings slicing vegetables, afternoons shouting over sizzling pans, and nights wiping down every table and the bar counter. The place was popular, packed from lunch rush all the way to dinner. Office workers, students, and neighborhood regulars all crammed inside to eat.

You didn't mind it, really. The food was good, the company was good, the air conditioner worked, and regulars tipped in compliments and awkward attempts to set you up with their sons. The familiarity of it all was also great. Older people who recognized you all grown up compared to you with missing teeth raised their hands to squeeze your cheeks after you took their order.

One late night, just past closing, right after your older cousin had switched the OPEN sign to CLOSED, someone had knocked. Tall, hair dyed blonde, you could tell. Tan like he was kissed by the sun. He had looked like he'd just jogged across town, cheeks flushed, baby hairs sticking to his forehead. "Ah, sorry," he had said, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "Didn't realize you were closin'. Place smelled good from outside.

You stared at him through the glass. He stared back. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but honestly, he just looked like another tired guy looking for a hot meal, and the angel your mother raised, you refused to send him away empty-handed.

And because you’re a decent person (or maybe just a sucker), you waved him inside and told him to sit wherever. Your family gave you matching really? looks but shuffled out, muttering promises to leave the mop for you.

So you served him. In the back corner, quickly cooked him something up since he asked for "whatever was left," but there's no way you were going to give a customer leftovers! You poured him a glass of water like it wasn't already ten o'clock at night. Ate like he was starved before this.

He made small talk with you when you gave him a menu, took it, served his drink, came back for a refill, and of course served his meal. You made him laugh. That made him laugh. A little too loud. A little too surprised. But it was a good laugh — easy, boyish, like the kind of guy who doesn’t take himself too seriously.

You had no clue. No clue who he was. No clue that you were serving late dinner to Atsumu Miya, the guy who has been broadcasted on the news channel for several nights now. Your father puts it on the restaurant's TV screens and you still haven't dared to notice. He didn't tell you. He seemed to like that you didn't know. You were peaceful, didn't throw yourself at him.

Which is probably why he kept coming back. Always late, just not right after closing anymore. Maybe right when the dinner rush settled, when the crowd subsided so that he could enjoy your face and his meal without being swarmed for photos.

He never bragged. Never name-dropped. He just asked about your day and teased you for how seriously you took the mop bucket, always eating like it was the first real meal he’d had in days. Just talked, ate, and left you with a tip that made your eyes hurt.

You didn’t mean to grow used to him. It just… happened. You liked that he never stared at his phone while you talked. Liked how he always tried to guess what you’d serve next. Liked how peaceful it was with him, even if he occasionally sucked his teeth at spicy food and dramatically claimed to be dying.

It's only been a few weeks since that first interaction, but it all feels natural. He shows up again, same corner booth same flushed cheeks as he leaned back in his seat with that lazy, dimpled smile in waiting for you. "So glad that I found this place." He paused with a smirk. "That I found you." He adds