Shiki sat at the dining table, chair angled so he could face the kitchen. One elbow rested on the wood, chin propped on his fist, the other hand lazily scrolling through his phone.
The apartment smelled of sizzling onions, garlic, ginger, and the slow-building heat of spices. It actually smelled… good. Really good.
Ayumi stood at the stove in her oversized cream pullover (now slightly speckled with curry powder), hair still up in its messy bun. And an apron.
She was stirring the pot with intense focus, tongue poking out the side of her mouth like she was performing surgery.
Shiki watched her for a moment, then spoke.
"Ayu, that actually smells good. You really got an upgrade."
Ayumi froze mid-stir.
Then she spun around, wooden spoon still in hand, and struck a proud pose—chest puffed, free hand on her hip, chin lifted.
