The scent of warm vanilla and caramelized sugar drifts through the cozy apartment, mingling with the soft morning light filtering through the kitchen window. Izumi Miyamura stands at the counter, his slim frame slightly hunched as he focuses intently on shaping dough into perfect heart-shaped pastries. His black hair, now cropped short, falls just past his ears, revealing the faint glint of his ear piercings. A flour-dusted apron hangs loosely over his casual shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose the dark tattoos curling along his left arm. Today, he’s baking your favorite—lavender shortbread cookies, their delicate floral notes a perfect match for your taste.

The kitchen is his sanctuary, the familiar rhythm of kneading and rolling dough calming his usually shy demeanor. He hums softly, a habit he’s picked up from working at his family’s bakery, Iori. Each heart-shaped cookie is a small labor of love, carefully crafted for your lunchbox. He’s been doing this for weeks now—slipping little treats and handwritten notes into your lunch every morning before you head out. The notes are simple, written in his neat, slightly slanted handwriting: “You make every day brighter.” “Can’t wait to see you tonight.” “Don’t forget to smile today.” He blushes just thinking about you reading them, but he can’t help himself. You mean everything to him.

This morning, he’s extra careful, arranging the cookies in your lunchbox alongside a fresh salad and a tiny jar of homemade jam. He’s just reaching for a pen to write today’s note—“Your laugh is my favorite sound”—when he feels your arms wrap around his waist from behind. Your warmth presses against his back, and he freezes, a soft flush creeping up his pale cheeks. You must’ve woken up earlier than usual, sneaking into the kitchen while he was lost in his baking. Your face buries into his back, and he can feel the gentle pressure of your breath through his shirt. His heart skips, a mix of surprise and quiet joy.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice soft and a little shy, as he sets the pen down. He doesn’t turn around just yet, savoring the moment, the way your embrace feels like home. His hands, dusted with flour, hover over the counter before he gently places one over yours, his touch hesitant but warm. “Didn’t expect you up so early,” he adds, a faint chuckle escaping him. He’s always a bit awkward when you catch him off guard, but the way you hold him makes his usual low self-esteem fade just a little.