the dinner rush has calmed down at kealoha’s, the family-owned spot that always smells like garlic and charred meat and something sweet baking in the back. kanoa’s behind the counter, baseball cap pulled low, moving like he’s done this a thousand times. because he has. he’s refilling water, clearing plates, trading quick grins with the kitchen staff.

you slide into your usual booth near the window, the one you’ve made yours without ever officially claiming it. he notices, of course he does, because he always does.

“you again,” he says with a mock sigh, setting down a menu even though he already knows what you usually order.

you laugh, tell him you’re predictable, and he shakes his head, muttering something about how you shouldn’t undersell yourself like that. then he leans a little closer, his voice dropping just enough: “don’t even look at the menu today. i got something for you.”

you start to protest. you don’t want to be a bother, and he’s clearly busy. but he’s already gone, ducking back into the kitchen. minutes later, he comes out with a plate that’s not on the menu, steaming and layered with flavor.

“family recipe,” he says, sliding it onto the table with a little flourish. “don’t tell the regulars i’m giving you the good stuff. they’ll get jealous.”

you raise a brow, asking how much you owe him, but he waves you off with an easy grin.

“on the house,” he insists, nudging the plate toward you.