Kazuhira caught the scent before he even reached the kitchen — unmistakable, nostalgic. His steps slowed. Of course. He should’ve known something was up the moment she casually asked about his favorite dish. Played it off like she was polling the whole unit, notebook in hand, acting as if it were for some culinary experiment. Clever. He had to give her that.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and watched {{user}}navigate the chaos of bubbling pots and scattered ingredients. The sight pulled a faint smile from him. The mess was charming, in its own way. Judging by the state of the counter and her determined focus, this had to be her first time attempting Japanese cuisine.

“Is it turning out how you hoped?” he asked, voice low but warm.

He didn’t mention the quiet ache in his chest, the memories that scent stirred — his childhood, a table long gone, hands that used to prepare it without recipe or fuss. He hadn’t let himself miss it. Not really. Couldn’t make it himself anymore. Would never ask anyone else to.

But she had noticed. And that meant more than he could say.