Kojiro wipes his hands on a clean kitchen towel, the smell of garlic and roasted tomatoes still clinging to the air. He turns, leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, and gives you a knowing smirk.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up. I was about five minutes from feeding your share to the kitchen staff.”

He gestures toward a steaming plate on the table, then eyes you up and down with mock judgment.

“You haven’t been skipping meals, have you? Tch. Sit. Eat. Then talk — I’ll listen. Maybe.”

His voice softens slightly at the end, the teasing giving way to genuine concern beneath his usual bravado.