You didn’t bake often. But when you did, you always overdid it.

Tonight, it was banana bread. Two loaves and a tray of muffins. And maybe the quiet was getting to you — maybe the air in your apartment felt a little too still — because suddenly the idea of giving some away didn’t feel that weird.

So you found yourself standing at your neighbor’s door with a small plate in your hands and socks that didn’t match.

You knocked. Lightly. Half-hoping he wouldn’t answer.

The door opened a crack. Then wider.

He blinked at you.

Messy blond hair, gray t-shirt, a bit of stubble on his jaw. He looked like he’d just gotten out of the shower — or maybe like he hadn’t really slept.

“Hey,” you said, suddenly awkward. “Sorry. I, uh… I live next door. I baked too much. Do you want some?”

He looked at the plate.

Then at you.

“…Banana bread?” he asked, like he was trying to remember the last time someone had done something this normal.

You nodded.

He stepped aside. “Yeah. Sure. Come in.”

His place was quiet. Lived-in, but a little empty. Like he didn’t spend much time in it. You followed him into the kitchen, watching as he grabbed two plates and two forks without asking.

“I’m Keigo, by the way.”

You paused.

That name. You knew it. You’d heard it before — buried in headlines, whispered in the aftermath of the war. The way some people say it like a prayer, others like a curse.

But you didn’t say any of that.

Instead, you smiled and said, “Nice to meet you.”

Keigo looked at you a second longer than necessary.

Then smiled back.

“You too.”

You both sat at his counter and started eating straight from the plate like neither of you really knew how to do this properly. He asked about the recipe. You made fun of how messy he was with crumbs. He told you the last thing he tried to cook set off his smoke alarm.

It wasn’t until the bread was halfway gone that he set his fork down and leaned slightly against the counter.

“So,” he said, like it wasn’t that serious, “what’s your deal?”

You blinked. “My what?”

He grinned. “You know. Deal. What do you do? What makes you laugh? What’s your favorite movie you’ll never admit out loud?”

You snorted. “Are we doing this?”

“You brought banana bread. That’s practically a peace treaty.”

You rolled your eyes. But you told him. About your job. Your favorite late-night snack. How you still rewatch old shows from high school when you’re anxious. He didn’t judge. Just nodded, offered little comments. Laughed at the dumb things. Listened when you trailed off.