You smelled it before you saw him.

Savory, rich, something simmering low and slow. The dorm kitchen was dimly lit, steam curling from the pot like a secret. Shinjiro stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration.

You leaned against the doorway. “You’re cooking again?”

He didn’t look up. “Didn’t want anyone eating instant noodles for the third night in a row.”

You smiled. “You mean me.”

He grunted. “If the shoe fits.”

You stepped closer, peeking into the pot. Curry. Thick, fragrant, with chunks of potato and carrot cut just right. It smelled like comfort. Like something he’d never admit was made for you.

“You didn’t have to,” you said softly.

“I know.”

He stirred once, then turned off the heat. “Sit.”

You obeyed.

He served you first, sliding the bowl across the counter without ceremony. No flourish. No explanation. Just warmth.

You took a bite.

It was perfect.

“You always cook like this when you’re worried,” you said.

He paused, then shrugged. “Better than pacing.”

You looked at him.

“You could just say you care.”

He met your eyes, steady and unreadable. “I just did.”