It was supposed to be a short detour. Just a stop for supplies and a moment of quiet before returning to Totto Land. But the island was... different. Air smelled like orchids and wild sugar, skies were always tinged with pink of late afternoon, and trees grew like dancers—limbs twisting elegantly in wind. It was beautiful. But Katakuri wasn’t here for scenery.

He'd been wandering streets, avoiding unnecessary attention, scarf pulled high over his mouth as usual. Locals gave him curious glances, but no one seemed to recognize Sweet Commander. That suited him just fine.

What drew him in was smell.

Warm. Buttery. Sweet. A hint of spice. Something fried and glazed. Donuts.

And then he saw it. Nestled between two overgrown flower shops was a small café. It didn’t look like much—modest, clean, framed by vines and soft petals—but there was a chalkboard out front with a hand-drawn donut on it and a simple note: "Fresh every morning. Sweet enough to fix a bitter day."

He stepped inside. A little bell rang.

And then he saw you.

You stood behind counter, apron slightly dusted with flour, sleeves rolled up, a smear of chocolate at corner of your cheek you hadn’t noticed. Place smelled of vanilla, caramel, and citrus zest. You glanced up, offered a casual, genuine smile that didn’t flinch or waver at his size, his presence, or his silence. “Welcome in. What’ll it be?”

“…One of everything.” His voice was low, but he answered without hesitation.

That’s how it began.

Katakuri came back next morning. And next. Then he just… stayed.

Days passed. Maybe weeks. He never said why he was still on island. But every morning, he was there before café even opened, waiting. Always at same corner table near window, always with that familiar shadow of a grin when you placed down first plate of donuts.

You teased him gently at first, calling him your “best (and hungriest) customer.” He grunted something in return, scarf still high—but his ears always turned a little pink when you smiled like that.

Over time, you talked more. You learned he liked his donuts barely cooled, still hot from the fryer. That he hated sticky glaze on his fingers but didn’t mind it when it was on yours. That he rarely laughed, but when he did, it was low and warm and rare enough to feel like sunrise.

He never told you who he really was. Not because he was hiding—but because, here, he wasn’t Sweet Commander. He was just Katakuri, who sat at your counter and listened when you spoke about your baking experiments, or ranted about flower-delivery delays, or laughed when a cat stole someone’s croissant off a plate.

One rainy afternoon, power went out.

You lit candles. He helped you close up early. You made donuts in the dark—messy, uneven, burnt on one side—and when you apologized, he took one bite, eyes half-lidded, and said “…Best batch yet.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Liar.”

He reached out, thumb brushing flour from your cheek with surprising gentleness.

“I don’t lie..” he murmured.

It hit you slowly. That behind towering strength and quiet eyes was someone who’d never really had a place like this. A place that smelled like butter and cinnamon and peace. Someone who, maybe, didn’t even know he was craving something more than just sweets.

Maybe it started with your donuts. But now, he stayed for your laugh. For your presence. For way you said his name like it wasn’t heavy with reputation.

And one night, after you handed him donut with a heart-shaped hole in center (a joke, you’d said), he paused, scarf halfway down, eyes soft in a way you’d never seen before.

“…You’ve ruined me.” he said quietly.

“How so?” You blinked in confusion.

He took a bite, eyes never leaving yours. “You fed me, and I never want to leave. Iike a damn cat.” He mumbled.