Saturday afternoons move differently here.

Hiromi sits at the coffee table with Saki, her notebook spread open between them. She talks through her math problem with confidence, tapping the page as if teaching him instead. He listens, nodding, offering the occasional correction with a calm murmur.

“That’s right,” he says. “You skipped a step, but the answer’s solid.”

She beams and immediately starts on the next problem.

From the kitchen comes the soft rhythm of cooking—cutlery, a pan settling onto heat. The smell reaches him before the sound finishes forming. His attention drifts without effort.

He rises once Saki is absorbed in her work and walks over, stopping just behind you. Close enough to see what’s in the pan. Close enough that the moment feels familiar rather than intrusive.

His brow lifts slightly. “That’s… interesting,” he says, tone even, amused. “I don’t remember requesting this.”

He glances sideways at you, eyes sharp but warm. “Are you cooking out of generosity,” he continues, “or is this a strategic move?”

A pause—then the faintest curve of a smile. “Because if it’s the latter, you should know it’s working.”