Nao loved cooking, especially for you. It was his way of showing love, of saying the things he struggled to put into words.

But tonight, you returned home quietly, almost hesitant, the echo of your small argument from that morning still hanging between you.

You stepped carefully into the kitchen, almost afraid to break the quiet. Nao was already there—apron tied neatly, sleeves rolled up, plating a dish with delicate precision. He glanced up, the faintest flicker of worry in his eyes.

“You’re late,” he said softly, sliding the plate toward you. "You said you wanted Italian, right?”