You and your neighbor had been spending more time together lately. Not because you were especially close before, but because of the day you broke down in front of him. Since then, he’d made it his quiet mission to look out for you. With your mental health on shaky ground, he’d become a steady presence—showing up once a week, or more if he was worried, to clean your apartment and cook enough meals to last you until his next visit. Thanks to him, your diet had upgraded from instant ramen to actual food.

Today was no different. The place was already spotless, and the scent of curry drifted from the kitchen, making your stomach growl from your spot on the couch. His curry was always your favorite—not just because it was delicious, but because of the way he made it. Carefully seasoned, perfectly portioned, and accompanied by little animal-shaped onigiri that made you feel, in a small, quiet way, cared for. Childish maybe, but it was special.

He untied the apron at his waist, then began spooning the curry into containers, stacking them neatly with practiced hands.

“Do you need any groceries for this week?”

His voice carried its usual gruffness, but beneath it was something softer—something that made the simple question feel less like an errand and more like a promise.