"So, it's a café, huh?"
Sitting on the hard wooden chair, Hara Kei glanced around with genuine interest.
The interior, softly illuminated by indirect lighting, carried a warm, nostalgic atmosphere, dominated by natural wood tones.
The faint aroma of polished wood, crushed coffee beans, the nutty scent of baked bread, and the rich sweetness of cream mingled in the air. Together, they formed an unmistakable fragrance—a scent that could only be described as happiness.
Humans' craving for sugar and fat was literally written into their DNA. For most of human history, true satiation was fleeting, and the basic act of filling one's stomach had always been essential to survival.
So it was no wonder that the aroma of food could trigger an innate, genuine feeling of joy.
"That's right. A café," Ai Hayasaka replied without looking up from the menu in front of her. She used a pen to tick off the items she wanted to try. "There aren't any dedicated breakfast shops along the streets of Tokyo. So, if you want a proper morning meal, cafés are the natural choice."
"Of course," she added, finally lifting her gaze, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Although… an even better choice would be to find a woman willing to make you miso soup every morning. Then you wouldn't have to worry about breakfast at all."
In Sakurajima, subtle ways of confessing affection abounded. Beyond Natsume Sōseki's famous "The moon is beautiful, isn't it?" there was a more down-to-earth line: "Make me miso soup every morning."
This phrase was deeply tied to local tradition—and also explained why dedicated breakfast shops didn't really exist in Tokyo.
In Sakurajima, it was common for women to quit their jobs after marriage, dedicating themselves fully to managing the household and raising children. In local eyes, breakfast was a daily duty of a proper housewife. Failing at breakfast meant failing at one of the most basic measures of domestic competence.
Miso soup, in particular, was the staple of a traditional Sakurajima breakfast—its status roughly equivalent to porridge in Huaguo breakfasts.
Thus, "Make me miso soup every morning" became a conventional, culturally understood way of confessing one's feelings—usually a man to a woman.
That was the underlying implication of Ai's comment.
"I'm afraid miso soup doesn't particularly interest me," Hara Kei replied with a small smile. "Besides, I prefer doing things myself rather than bothering others."
"I knew it," Ai murmured to herself, encountering a response that was neither hard nor soft, but refusing to be discouraged.
After all, it wasn't her who was in a hurry.
She decisively gave up on further testing, raising her hand to call over the café attendant, and handed over the menu she had marked.
"Hara Kei, we still have a little time before our breakfast is ready," Ai said, looking at him with a mischievous smile. "Why don't we do something fun to pass the time? What do you say?"
"Oh? Like what?" Hara Kei asked, curiosity piqued as he pulled his attention away from the café's interior decor.
"Hmm-hmm-hmm!" Ai grinned, a touch of pride in her expression, and snapped her fingers.
Moments later, the waiter brought over a tray and set it carefully on the table in front of them. On it:
A steaming pot of dark brown liquid, clearly coffee from its rich aroma; several ceramic coffee cups adorned with adorable bear illustrations, giving them a playful charm.
But the most peculiar item was a large cup with a spout. Looking inside, the white liquid glimmered in the morning sunlight, carrying an intense, creamy fragrance.
Coffee and milk—what's strange about that?
Wait—this milk seemed different. Ordinary milk didn't have such a smooth texture. Could it be…?
Noticing Hara Kei's curious gaze, Ai smiled softly and demonstrated how to use it.
She poured a little coffee into one of the ceramic cups, then held the large container of treated milk in one hand. With the spout poised near the cup, she tilted it over the center of the coffee, her movements calm and elegant.
Hara Kei watched as Ai skillfully manipulated the two tools. Minutes later, she placed a finished cup in front of him.
On the coffee's surface was a beautifully crafted white flower—a perfect example of latte art.
Hara Kei, of course, knew the technique, but he had assumed it would be a professional staff member doing it—not his classmate showing him firsthand.
"Want to try it?" Ai asked, placing the tools before him with a playful challenge. "It's simple. Just follow the motions I showed you."
Sure, if you say so… Ai thought wryly to herself.
Her reason for choosing this café went beyond the exquisite French toast, arguably the best in Tokyo. More importantly, she wanted to break through Hara Kei's calm, unchanging expression and see if she could make him reveal a hint of surprise or reaction.
After all, he had already seen her completely unguarded. It was only fair to try and see his reactions in turn.
Hara Kei seemed oblivious to her internal scheming, his expression showing genuine interest.
"All right," he said, recalling Ai's demonstration and starting to imitate her movements.
…
When the black iron pan holding the French toast—rich with the scent of wheat and butter—was brought to the table, Ai studied the coffee in front of her with a mixture of awe and affection: forty percent astonishment, sixty percent unwilling to let it go.
On the coffee's surface, a little bear faced her, smiling and even reaching out a tiny paw—its cuteness amplified beyond words.
This was Hara Kei's final creation.
He hadn't been able to do latte art before—but he had improved astonishingly fast.
No—too fast.
In less than ten minutes, he had surpassed even Ai's own skill level.
Latte art wasn't some arcane craft, but…
Ai felt a swirl of emotions as she looked at Hara Kei.
She suddenly understood why Yukinoshita Haruno had acted the way she did.