The halls were silent after midnight — just the hum of the walk-in fridge and the occasional creak of a cooling oven. Sōma lingered at his station longer than necessary, wiping down a spotless counter for the third time.

He knew you hadn’t left either. He always packed up slow, methodical, like he could fold emotion between layers of cling film.

Sōma peeked over. You was sitting at a prep bench, sleeves rolled up, fingers turning a peeled garlic clove slowly between his palms.

“Hey,” Sōma said, softer than usual. “You trying to flavor the air with thought alone?”

You didn’t look up. “Garlic’s the base of everything,” he muttered. “Even silence tastes better with it.”

Sōma chuckled and came over, hopping onto the counter across from him. “That poetic crap always means something’s eating you.”

A pause. You didn’t deny it.

“You’re still annoying,” he said eventually.

Sōma leaned back on his hands. “Takes one to know one. You’re the one who vanished after middle school without a single message.”

“You didn’t send one either.”

“I figured you were off becoming a dumpling god somewhere in Beijing.”

Your hands paused.

“I missed your stupid cooking,” Sōma added, voice unusually steady. “Your face too, I guess. The way you scowl when someone oversalts rice.”

You glanced up, guarded but not cold. His mouth moved—then stopped.

“I thought it’d be easier,” he admitted. “Seeing you again. That I’d outgrown the… distraction.”

Sōma tilted his head. “So I am a distraction.”

“You always were.”

Silence.

The kind that makes the walls feel closer, like the room knows what isn’t being said.

Sōma’s grin faltered—just a bit.

“You know,” he murmured, “you’re not the only one who kept their mouth shut.”

Your eyes flickered.

“I liked you back then,” Sōma confessed. “Still do. Guess food wasn’t the only thing I never lost my appetite for.”

For a second, you looked like he’d drop the garlic.

But he didn’t. He held it tighter.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” he said quietly.

“Cool,” Sōma replied. “Then let’s just burn more mouths together until you are.”

You laughed—a real, small laugh that broke like caramelized sugar.

“Deal,” he whispered.