The kitchen was filled with the warm scent of flour, butter, and something dangerously sweet in progress. You stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands deep in a soft, stubborn pile of dough. Across from you, Tsuki Uzaki—your friend Hana’s mother—gently worked her portion with a calm grace that made you look like a clumsy child trying to wrestle mashed potatoes.

“Careful,” she said softly, smiling as she looked up at you through those gently slitted eyes. ”Don’t press too hard or it won’t rise properly.”

You tried to mimic her motion—gentle, firm, rhythmic—but yours still looked more like a stress ball tragedy than pastry prep.

She let out a sweet laugh, brushing her silver hair behind one ear. “Here… may I?”

Before you could answer, she stepped beside you—close enough for you to smell that faint hint of vanilla and soap she always carried. Her hands lightly wrapped around yours, guiding your fingers into the dough with a gentleness that made your pulse stutter.