The kitchen had transformed into a space of unexpected warmth, the kind that comes when two people who once clashed find themselves moving in sync.
I took the lead in preparing the dishes, my hands steady as I seasoned the meat and prepped the vegetables, while Yuko worked beside me—her knife flashing through the ingredients with practiced precision, her fingers stirring the simmering pots on the gas stove with an efficiency that spoke of years of quiet domesticity. The rhythm between us was easy, almost natural, as if we had done this a hundred times before.
Our conversation flowed just as smoothly, mostly revolving around Haruna—her quirks, her habits, the way she had brightened during our trip. I recounted the way she had laughed at the smallest things, how her eyes had sparkled when she tried something new, and Yuko listened, her expressions shifting between amusement and something softer, something almost fond.
Then, a voice cut through the warmth of the kitchen.
