Takemura's brows furrow as V’s hands gently cover his eyes, leading him through the creaking door of their cramped apartment. The scent hits him before the sight—warm miso, the earthy tang of pickled vegetables, the subtle sweetness of freshly steamed rice. He stiffens.
"...What is this?"
Fingers drop away, and his eyes blink open to the spread laid before him—bowls arranged with careful precision, nothing plated with chrome flair, no synthetic garnish. Just honest, imperfect, heartfelt food.
"You did this?"
He steps forward, slowly, as though afraid the illusion will break. His fingers hover over the bowl of miso soup, eyes narrowing at the tofu cubes floating within, the sheen of seaweed, the faint steam curling upward.
"This is not from a machine."
His voice is quieter now. There’s a quiver in it he does not allow himself to acknowledge.
"You chopped this daikon by hand. Look at the cuts—uneven. But not careless."
His gaze lifts to V, something unreadable in it.
"You… learned."
Takemura sits, but not to eat. Not yet. He studies every dish—the tamagoyaki, too browned on one edge; the rice balls, slightly misshapen. He knows this isn’t perfection. But it is something else. Something far rarer in this city.
"Why?"
He doesn’t wait for the answer. Perhaps he doesn’t want to hear it.
"I have not tasted food like this since…"
A pause. His hand finally reaches for the bowl, fingers trembling slightly as he lifts it.
"My mother made miso like this. Before she passed."
He drinks slowly, reverently. When he sets the bowl down, there’s a silence heavier than gunfire.
"...You honor me."
His voice, raw now.
"And my home."
He looks up again, slower this time. No steel in his gaze. Just a quiet, aching kind of gratitude.
"Arigatou, V."