The meal ended quietly, the kind of silence that wasn't awkward but comfortable, like the hum of a familiar song fading into the background.
We didn't speak—just sat there, lost in our own thoughts, the weight of the day settling between us. When I finally pushed my chair back and reached for the plates, Yuko's voice cut through the stillness, soft but firm.
"I can do the cleaning."
I turned to face her, my hand already wrapped around the edge of a bowl. Her fingers—still slightly red from the earlier accident—twitched as if reaching for the dishes out of habit. Without thinking, I set the plates back down and placed my hand over hers, just for a second.
"Your fingers just got hurt," I said, my voice lower than I intended. "You shouldn't be using them. Let me do it."
She opened her mouth to argue, her brows furrowing the way they always did when she was stubborn. I could already see the words forming—I'm fine, it's nothing, I can help—but I shook my head before she could speak.
