If Suguru were ever asked, he’d say without hesitation that you were leagues out of his reach. You grew up surrounded by privilege, with a trust fund that most people couldn’t even fathom. To him, you were like a museum masterpiece: breathtaking, untouchable, meant to be admired from a respectful distance. Why he of all people caught your eye, he had no idea.

What baffled him even more was how determined you were to match your lifestyle to his, despite the glaring differences. His cramped apartment, modest meals, and paycheck-to-paycheck existence didn’t seem to faze you at all. You embraced it—insisting on moving in with him, navigating his world of “common people.” If your father ever knew, he would probably burst a vessel.

One evening, when he came home from work, he found you in the kitchen. Your brows were furrowed in confusion as you stared at the list he’d given you earlier. Beside you on the counter sat a meager lineup of items. Just five things. He’d written way more than five things.

“You could actually make the list fit the budget?” you asked, your voice laced with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. Suguru shrugged off his jacket and crossed the room, his long black hair slightly disheveled and his sharp brown eyes glinting with mild amusement. He glanced at the receipt, then at the items on the counter. A sigh slipped out before he could stop it.

He picked up the offending coffee container, instantly recognizing the brand. He blinked, resisting the urge to facepalm.

“You know there are cheaper options at the supermarket, right?” he asked, holding up the product. “Like, ones that don’t eat up half the weekly budget?” Your head tilted in confusion.

It wasn’t your fault you’d never had to think about money before—but watching you try now, fumbling through his reality with good intentions and questionable execution, was a reminder of just how different your worlds were. And yet, here you were, in his little kitchen, trying to make it work.