two months in, satoru gojo's meticulously structured life had quietly reorganized itself around flour & sugar's operating hours. his calendar, once a rigid grid of training blocks and sponsorship meetings, now had soft, flexible pockets of time carved out for "research."
his trainer, masaru, had progressed from exasperated sighs to leaving passive-aggressive notes about "dietary consistency" taped to his gym locker. one simply read: "carbs are not your friend, satoru." satoru had crumpled it up with a grin.
his friends had progressed from gentle ribbing about his "carb phase" to outright intervention attempts.
"dude, you know there are other bakeries in the city, right?" his roommate had asked last tuesday, watching satoru check the time for the third time in ten minutes, a nervous energy thrumming under his skin. "ones that don't require you to rearrange your entire geopolitical schedule?"
satoru had just shrugged, eyes fixed on the clock. "the lighting's better at this one."
but they didn't understand. couldn't understand. because somewhere between that first accidental like and now, somewhere in the quiet hum of your cafe and the warm scent of your pastries, this had stopped being about the pastries entirely.
wednesday morning found him arriving at his usual time—10:47 am, after the morning rush but before lunch prep fully consumed your attention.
he'd timed it perfectly over weeks of careful observation, memorizing the rhythm of your day like scripture. the bell announced his entrance with a familiar chime, and he felt that stupid, predictable flutter in his chest when you looked up from behind the counter, a small, knowing smile touching your lips.
you were piping something delicate onto petit fours, tiny, jewel-like cakes arranged in neat rows. your movements were precise, economical, each squeeze of the pastry bag adding perfect, miniature rosettes of buttercream. but it was the soft humming that got him—a barely audible, contented melody that seemed to flow from some deep, quiet place inside you. he'd started cataloging these details without meaning to.
"morning, cupcake," he said, his voice a low, familiar rumble as he settled into his usual spot by the window. the endearment had become natural, automatic, though he wasn't sure when that had happened. it just… fit.
"morning, satoru." your voice carried a warmth that made something dangerous and hopeful bloom in his chest. you finished the petit four with a final, delicate flourish, set down the piping bag, and he watched you wipe your hands on your flour-dusted black apron—the same gesture he'd seen hundreds of times now, but it still made him want to memorize the movement. "the usual?"
the usual. like he was a regular fixture, a predictable part of your day, which he supposed he was. chocolate tart, almond croissant, matcha latte with extra sweetness because you'd noticed his ridiculous sweet tooth weeks ago and started accommodating it without him ever having to ask.
"you know me so well," he said, and the words held more weight than he'd intended.
something flickered across your face—pleasure, maybe, or a quiet satisfaction at being seen as perceptive. you moved through the preparation with a practiced efficiency, but he caught the way you selected his chocolate tart from the back row, where you'd obviously set aside the most perfectly formed one. he noticed how you added just a touch more syrup to his matcha without measuring, your muscle memory perfectly calibrated to his preferences.
these small kindnesses shouldn't have meant so much. but they did. they felt like secrets, quiet acknowledgements of this strange, unspoken thing growing between you.
"here we go," you said, setting his order down with a quiet care. your fingers brushed his as you handed over the matcha, a contact so brief it was barely there, but so electric it sent a jolt straight up his arm. "perfect timing, too—that tart just came out of the case."
"perfect timing," he agreed, his voice a little rough, though he was talking about more than pastries. every visit felt like perfect timing now, like the universe had conspired to place him in this specific seat at this specific moment, watching you create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.
he settled in, but the cafe felt different today. quieter. the lull between rushes seemed to stretch longer, leaving just the two of you in the warm, sweet-scented space. he ate slowly, deliberately, making the experience last. he'd finish a bite of the rich, decadent tart, then take a sip of the sweet, earthy matcha, his eyes constantly drifting back to you as you worked.
you were arranging the petit fours now, a focused intensity in your movements. you felt his gaze on you, a familiar, warm weight. but it wasn't just observation anymore—it felt like a presence, a quiet companionship that filled the empty spaces in the cafe.
"those look almost too pretty to eat," he called over, his voice a low, appreciative murmur.
you glanced up, a small, genuine smile touching your lips. "almost," you agreed. "that's the goal. make people hesitate for at least a full second before they destroy your hard work."
he chuckled, a rich sound that made your chest feel warm. "a full second? that's ambitious. for me, it's more like half a second of quiet reverence, followed by total annihilation." he gestured to his now-empty plate as evidence.
the conversation fell into a comfortable silence. he finished his latte, but he didn't move. he didn't pull out his phone, didn't start gathering his things. he just sat there, watching you, a soft, unguarded expression on his face. the hesitation was palpable, a quiet reluctance to break the spell of the morning. you felt your own heart beating a little faster. he was waiting. waiting for what, you weren't sure. maybe for you to tell him to leave.
but you didn't want him to.
your hands stilled on the counter. you took a breath, a small, shaky thing. this was new territory, a step beyond the safety of your professional boundaries. "so," you started, your voice a little softer than you intended. "i was, uh, working on something new this morning."
his head tilted, a spark of genuine curiosity lighting up his storm-glass eyes. he leaned forward slightly, all his attention focused on you. "oh yeah? a new instrument of torture for my trainer?"
the familiar banter was a lifeline, and you grabbed it. "something like that," you said, a real smile breaking through. you ducked into the kitchen for a moment, the hum in your throat picking up a nervous, excited tempo. when you returned, you were holding a small, pristine white plate. on it sat a single, perfect creation.
it was a small, dome-shaped mousse cake, glazed with a mirror finish so pale blue it was almost white, the exact shade of his eyes on a clear winter day. delicate, crystalline sugar work spun around its base like fractured ice, and on top, a single, perfect white chocolate feather rested, reminiscent of his impossible hair, dusted with the finest silver powder. it looked like him. it looked like a feeling you were terrified to name.
you placed it on the counter between you, a silent, trembling offering.
satoru stared at it, his usual playful smirk gone, replaced by an expression of genuine, stunned awe. his eyes, so often a similar shade of impossible blue, widened as he took in the delicate details. the color. the single white feather. the resemblance was subtle, artful, but undeniably there. he knew, instantly, what—or rather, who—he was looking at. "cupcake," he breathed, the word soft, reverent, barely a whisper. "what is this?"
"i'm not sure what to call it yet," you admitted, your fingers finding the familiar comfort of your apron, twisting the fabric. "it's a white chocolate and blueberry mousse. with a yuzu curd center. i was trying to capture a feeling, more than just a flavor." your eyes were fixed on the cake, unable to meet his.
he looked from the cake to you, his gaze intense, searching, his heart hammering against his ribs. he understood. oh, he understood completely. "what feeling?"
you felt a blush heat your cheeks, a slow, deep burn. you risked a glance up, and the raw vulnerability in his expression made your breath catch. "i don't know… quiet. calm." you gestured vaguely at the peaceful cafe around you, a weak attempt at deflection. "like… the feeling you get when you finally perfect something. that moment of peace." your lie was thin as spun sugar.
he was silent for a long moment, just looking at you, a universe of unspoken understanding passing between your locked gazes. then, his eyes met yours, and there was a raw honesty in them you'd never seen before. "can i…?"
"i was hoping you would," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "i need an honest opinion. from a professional researcher."
that earned you a slow, breathtaking smile. it wasn't his usual cocky grin—it was softer, more genuine, and it reached all the way to his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. "my services are at your disposal."
he moved from his table to the counter, taking the seat opposite you. the shift was significant. he was no longer a customer in your space—he was a guest, an invited participant. he picked up the small fork you'd provided, his long, callused fingers surprisingly delicate.
he took the first bite with the focus of a bomb disposal expert. you watched, holding your breath, as his expression shifted. his eyes widened slightly, then fluttered closed for a brief, blissful moment. a soft, involuntary sigh escaped his lips.
he chewed slowly, thoughtfully. you saw the surprise as the bright, tart yuzu hit his palate, cutting through the creamy sweetness of the white chocolate and the subtle fruitiness of the blueberry.
when he opened his eyes, they were dark, intense. "cupcake," he said again, his voice rough with emotion. "that's… that's not a pastry. that's a poem." he looked from the half-eaten cake back to you, a question in his eyes. a silent asking. is this for me?
pride, warm and overwhelming, bloomed in your chest. "so… it's okay?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly.
he laughed, a real, incredulous sound. "okay? it's… perfect." he took another bite, slower this time, savoring it. "it tastes exactly like you said. like a quiet morning. like… peace." he looked at you then, and the weight of his gaze was enough to make your knees feel weak. "like finding something you didn't even know you were looking for."
"i try," you whispered, your heart doing a wild, joyful dance against your ribs.
he finished the entire cake in a reverent silence. when he was done, he set the fork down gently, a thoughtful, almost sad expression on his face. "the only problem," he said, looking at the empty plate, "is that it's over."
his gaze lifted to yours, and in that moment, in the quiet of the empty cafe, with the ghost of a perfect pastry between you, you both knew he wasn't just talking about the cake anymore.
he was in trouble. deep, irreversible trouble.
and as you looked back at him, a soft, shy smile touching your lips, you realized with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty… so were you.
thursday passed like a held breath.
you found yourself checking the clock obsessively—10:30, 10:45, 10:47. each minute that ticked by without the familiar chime of the entrance bell felt heavier than the last. by 11 am, you'd reorganized the display case twice. by noon, you'd deep-cleaned the espresso machine that was already spotless. by 2 pm, you were fighting the urge to text him, though you didn't even have his number.
the rational part of your mind supplied perfectly reasonable explanations. content creation. gym sessions. life. but the irrational part—the part that had spent last night dreaming about storm-glass eyes and the way he'd said "perfect" like a prayer—whispered crueler possibilities.
maybe he'd finally realized how far he'd drifted from his carefully curated routine. maybe masaru had staged a successful intervention. maybe yesterday's cake had been too much, too obvious, too vulnerable.
maybe he'd finally gotten tired of your little bakery.
the lunch rush came and went in a blur of mechanical smiles and automated responses. customers complimented your strawberry danish, your matcha cookies, your perfectly crafted lattes, but their praise felt muted, like hearing music through water. you caught yourself glancing toward his usual table—table three by the window—every few minutes, each time hoping to see white hair catching the afternoon light.
instead, you saw empty chairs and the golden dust motes dancing in the space he usually occupied.
masako, your part-time helper, noticed your distraction during the afternoon lull. "you seem off today," she said, wiping down the counter with characteristic directness. at sixty-two, she had no patience for subtlety. "waiting for someone?"
"no," you lied, your voice a little too bright. "just tired."
she hummed, unconvinced, but left you to your melancholy. you spent the rest of the afternoon perfecting a new recipe for honey lavender madeleines, throwing yourself into the familiar comfort of precise measurements and careful timing. baking had always been your meditation, your way of quieting the noise in your head. but today, even the methodical ritual couldn't quite drown out the disappointed whisper in your chest.
by 6 pm, you'd accepted the truth. he wasn't coming.
you began your closing routine with a heavy heart, moving through the familiar motions on autopilot. wiping down tables, washing the last of the display cases, counting the till. the evening light slanted golden through your windows, painting everything in warm honey tones that should have felt cozy but instead felt lonely.
you were just reaching for the door lock, keys jingling softly against your wrist, when you heard it—the soft tap of knuckles against glass.
your heart performed some impossible acrobatics as you turned, and there he was. satoru gojo, looking uncharacteristically nervous in the fading daylight, one hand raised in a small wave, the other clutching something behind his back. his usual confident smirk was nowhere to be found; instead, his expression held a tentative quality that made your chest ache with sudden, overwhelming relief. even anxious, he was devastating—the way his white hair caught the golden hour light like spun silk, how his broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorframe despite the uncertain set to them.
you fumbled with the lock, your hands trembling slightly as you let him in. "satoru," you breathed, his name carrying more emotion than you'd intended, your fingers still wrapped around the cool metal of your keys. "i thought—"
"i know," he said quickly, stepping inside and bringing with him the familiar scent of clean soap and something indefinably him. his free hand found the back of his neck, rubbing in a gesture you'd never seen before, vulnerability written in the uncertain tilt of his mouth. "i'm sorry. i had… things to take care of." a pause, where he seemed to gather courage from somewhere deep. "i was going to come this morning, but then i realized i needed to do this properly."
"do what properly?" you asked, your pulse hammering against your throat. the question came out softer than intended, curiosity and hope threading through your voice as you unconsciously stepped closer.
instead of answering, he brought his hidden hand forward, revealing a small bouquet that made your breath snag. white camellias, maybe a dozen of them, their petals perfect and pristine as fresh snow. in japan, you knew their meaning: you're adorable. my destiny. in love with you. the message was clear, vulnerable, impossibly sweet.
satoru's cheeks flushed the faintest pink as he watched your expression shift, the color spreading across his sculpted features like watercolor on paper. "i spent three hours at five different flower shops," he admitted, his voice carrying that rare uncertainty that made him seem younger, more human. "the florist at the last one had to explain the meanings because apparently i'm hopeless at this." his storm-glass eyes met yours, earnest and a little scared, the usual playful glint replaced by something raw and real. "but these… these felt right. they reminded me of yesterday. of that cake. of the way you looked at me when i said it was perfect."
you took the bouquet with reverent hands, your fingertips brushing his in the transfer—a contact so brief it barely registered but electric enough to send warmth spiraling up your arms. the delicate petals felt like silk against your skin as you brought them closer, breathing in their subtle fragrance. "satoru," you whispered, and the name came out like a sigh, like gratitude made sound. "they're beautiful."
relief flooded his features like sunlight breaking through clouds, and a hint of his usual confidence crept back into the curve of his mouth. those impossibly long lashes fluttered as he blinked, and when he smiled—really smiled, not the practiced grin from his instagram posts—it transformed his entire face. "i was hoping you'd say that. because i have a question to ask you, and i figured flowers might help my case."
you looked up at him expectantly, your heart doing that familiar flutter-dance, clutching the camellias like an anchor.
"would you…" he started, then stopped, that hand finding his hair again, fingers raking through the white strands and leaving them slightly mussed. you'd never seen him this flustered, and it was endearing beyond words, the way his carefully maintained composure cracked to reveal something beautifully nervous underneath. "god, why is this harder than my first brand partnership pitch?" he muttered to himself, making you laugh despite your nerves.
the sound seemed to center him. "satoru," you said gently, setting the flowers carefully on the counter, your movements deliberate and soft. "just ask."
he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath his fitted black sweater, shoulders squaring as he found his resolve. "would you like to have dinner with me? tonight? there's this place…" his voice gained momentum, words tumbling out like he was afraid he'd lose his nerve. "it's small, nothing fancy, but they make the best karaage in shibuya, and their ramen is…" he trailed off, shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile that made your stomach flip. "i'm selling this terribly. what i'm trying to say is, it's my favorite place. where i go when i need to feel grounded. and i want to share it with you."
the vulnerability in his voice, the way he was offering you a piece of his private world, made your chest feel too small for your heart. you pressed your palms against the counter for stability, the cool surface grounding you as you processed the magnitude of what he was asking. "i'd love to," you said simply, and watched his entire body relax with relief, tension melting from his shoulders like snow in spring.
"yeah?" he asked, that devastating smile breaking across his face like sunrise, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made you want to memorize every detail.
"yeah," you confirmed, grinning back at him, your own smile feeling bright enough to power the whole cafe. "just let me grab my things."
you found a small ceramic vase in your supply closet and arranged the camellias carefully, their white petals catching the last of the evening light. they looked perfect on your counter, a promise of something beautiful beginning. after gathering your cardigan and bag, locking up the cafe with hands that trembled only slightly, you turned to find satoru watching you with soft eyes, his gaze following your movements like he was cataloguing them for later.
"ready?" he asked, offering you his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman, the gesture somehow both casual and reverent.
"ready," you replied, slipping your hand through the crook of his elbow and trying not to think about how perfectly you fit against his side, how solid and warm he felt beneath the soft fabric of his sweater.
the walk to his favorite restaurant took fifteen minutes through the bustling streets of shibuya. he guided you away from the main tourist areas, down narrow side streets where locals hurried past small family-owned shops and the air smelled like yakitori and car exhaust and the particular energy of tokyo at dinnertime. his free hand occasionally gestured as he talked, painting pictures in the air, and you found yourself watching the elegant line of his wrists, the way his long fingers moved with unconscious grace.
"nervous?" he asked as you walked, and you realized you'd been quieter than usual, too busy cataloguing the way his presence beside you made the familiar streets feel brand new.
"a little," you admitted, your fingers tightening slightly on his arm. "good nervous, though."
"me too," he confessed, and the honesty in his voice made you look up at him in surprise. up close, you could see the faint freckles scattered across his nose, barely visible unless you were really looking. "i haven't done this in a while. the whole… proper date thing."
"what do you usually do?" you asked, then immediately regretted the question, your cheeks warming. "sorry, that's none of my business."
"no, it's okay," he said, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your arm where your hand rested, the touch absent and soothing. "honestly? usually nothing this meaningful. protein bars in my apartment while editing content isn't exactly romantic dinner material." his laugh carried a note of self-deprecation that made you want to argue with him about his worth.
you laughed, the sound bright in the evening air, and felt him relax beside you. "well, you're setting the bar pretty low for yourself."
"exactly," he grinned, and there was that practiced charm again, but softer somehow, more genuine. "smart strategy. exceed expectations by actually trying."
the restaurant he led you to was tucked between a small bookshop and a traditional tea house, so narrow you almost missed it. the wooden sign above the door was weathered and simple: "momiji." no english, no tourist-friendly decorations, just the kind of place locals protected fiercely from guidebook discovery.
inside was warm and cramped in the best possible way. maybe ten tables total, most occupied by older couples and small groups of friends talking quietly over steaming bowls. the air was rich with the smell of soy and garlic and chicken fat, and your stomach rumbled appreciatively, the sound making satoru's mouth quirk with amusement.
"gojo-kun!" called out an elderly woman from behind the counter, her face lighting up with genuine affection that transformed her weathered features into something beautiful.
"evening, chiyo-san," satoru replied, bowing slightly, and you watched his whole demeanor shift into something warmer, more relaxed. the careful influencer polish melted away, replaced by genuine fondness. "i brought someone special tonight."
the woman's eyes immediately shifted to you, taking in your simple cream-colored dress with the tiny floral print and the way satoru's hand had found the small of your back as he guided you inside, his palm warm even through the fabric. her smile grew knowing, delighted, the expression of someone who'd been waiting for this moment. "ah, i see. the usual table?"
"please," he said, and she led you to a small booth in the back corner, quieter and more intimate than the rest of the dining room.
as you settled across from each other, the worn wooden bench soft beneath you, you realized how different this felt from your morning encounters at the cafe. there, you'd had the safety of routine, the professional distance of counter service. here, with nothing between you but a small wooden table scarred with years of use and the soft glow of paper lanterns, the connection felt immediate, electric.
"so," you said, glancing around the cozy space, your fingers playing with the hem of your dress, "how did you find this place?"
his expression grew thoughtful, a little nostalgic, and he leaned back against the booth. even relaxed, there was something elegant about the way he occupied space, long limbs arranged with unconscious grace. "my first year trying to make it as a competitive swimmer, i was broke. like, eating convenience store onigiri for every meal broke." his fingers drummed against the table, a nervous habit you'd never noticed before. "but i'd just started posting gym content online—mostly because i was bored and thought my workout routines were decent enough to share. turns out people really liked watching me lift heavy things." his grin turned almost smug, and you could see a hint of that cocky influencer confidence bleeding through. "went from the chubby kid getting laughed at in middle school to having people leave fire emojis on everything i posted. not gonna lie, the ego boost was incredible."
you nearly choked on your own spit. "you were chubby?" the question came out before you could stop it, eyes widening as you tried to reconcile this information with the man sitting across from you—all sharp angles and lean muscle and the kind of physique that probably broke instagram servers on a regular basis.
his laugh was rich, genuinely amused by your shock. "hard to believe, right? but yeah, i was this round little kid who lived on baa-chan's pastries and had absolutely zero athletic ability. got picked on pretty relentlessly for it too." his expression grew more serious for a moment. "kids can be brutal about that stuff."
"i can't even imagine," you said, still staring at him like he'd just revealed he used to be a completely different person. "you're so…" you gestured vaguely at all of him, "you know."
"devastatingly handsome?" he supplied with a grin that was pure mischief.
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "i was going to say fit, but your ego doesn't need any more help."
"my ego is perfectly calibrated, thank you very much," he said, taking another bite with obvious satisfaction. "six million followers can't be wrong."
"six million?" you nearly choked on your tea, your eyes widening in genuine shock. you'd known he was popular—the blue checkmark, the sudden influx of customers at your cafe—but that number was astronomical. you hadn't even looked when you'd first clicked on his profile, too stunned by the… scenery.
a flicker of confusion crossed his features, quickly replaced by a slow, amused smirk. he leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, those storm-glass eyes sparkling with pure mischief. "wait a minute," he said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing drawl. "you're telling me you stalked my entire profile, 'accidentally' liked my abs, and you didn't even clock the follower count?" his eyebrows rose in mock disbelief. "cupcake, were you that mesmerized?"
heat flooded your cheeks, a furious, mortifying blush. "it was an accident!" you insisted, your voice a little too high. "my phone slipped! literally! it fell on my face!"
he just laughed, a rich, delighted sound that made chiyo-san glance over with a fond smile. "sure it did. a very convenient, gravity-induced slip right onto the like button of my most recent thirst trap." he leaned back, looking incredibly pleased with himself. "it's okay to admit it. my content is very… engaging."
"it was an accident," you repeated through gritted teeth, though the corner of your mouth was twitching with a smile you were desperately trying to suppress. "i barely even noticed."
"you noticed enough to get flustered when i walked into your cafe the next day," he countered, his grin widening. "don't worry, your secret's safe with me." he winked, a quick, devastatingly charming gesture.
you sighed in dramatic, feigned defeat, shaking your head in amused disbelief. here he was, this successful influencer with millions of people thirsting over his content, sitting in a tiny restaurant getting excited about karaage and still finding the time to relentlessly tease you about a two-month-old instagram mishap.
he gestured around the small restaurant with obvious affection, his smile softening, the teasing glint in his eyes receding as he switched back to the more serious topic. "anyway… that first real brand deal came through when i had a lot fewer followers than i do now. i wandered around for hours after i got the email, just buzzing, until i smelled chiyo-san's karaage and… followed my nose. she fed me for about half what anywhere else would have charged, and when i tried to tip her, she refused. said young athletes needed to save their money for important things."
"like what?" you asked, charmed by the story, by the way his whole face animated as he spoke.
"protein powder, apparently," he laughed, the sound rich and genuine. "she's been trying to fatten me up ever since. every time i come in, she adds extra portions and pretends not to notice." his expression shifted, became more thoughtful. "funny thing is, she reminds me of my grandmother. same stubborn kindness, same inability to let people leave hungry."
something in his voice made you lean forward slightly, sensing a story. "your grandmother?"
"baa-chan," he said, and the childhood nickname made him look younger somehow, vulnerability flickering across his features like candlelight. "she lived with us when i was little. made the most incredible pastries—mont blanc, cream puffs, these little butter cookies shaped like flowers." his fingers moved as he spoke, sketching shapes in the air. "i was… well, let's just say i was a chubby kid with zero self-control around her baking."
the admission came with a self-conscious laugh, and you watched him duck his head slightly, white hair falling across his forehead in a way that made your fingers itch to brush it back. "i probably ate my weight in cream puffs every week. my parents were horrified—kept talking about discipline and proper nutrition—but baa-chan would just smile and make me another batch."
"what happened?" you asked softly, sensing the weight beneath his words.
"she died when i was twelve," he said simply, but you caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the old grief still tender. "that's actually when i got serious about swimming. needed something to prove, you know? the chubby kid who got picked on suddenly had abs and could out-swim anyone." his laugh held a note of old satisfaction. "worked pretty well too, until my shoulder decided otherwise at nineteen." he shrugged, and there was something almost casual about it, like he'd made peace with that disappointment long ago. "funny thing though—turns out all that discipline translated perfectly to social media. and honestly? after years of being called names, having people thirst over my workout videos was… pretty addictive."
the parallel wasn't lost on you—him finding your bakery, the way he'd gravitated toward your humming, your pastries, your quiet care. your throat felt tight with understanding. "she sounds wonderful," you managed, your voice softer than intended.
"she would have loved you," he said, and the certainty in his voice made warmth bloom in your chest. "would have probably tried to steal all your recipes and then pretend she'd invented them herself."
a soft, watery laugh escaped you at the image, a sound thick with an emotion you couldn't quite name. you reached across the small table, your fingers gently covering his where they rested on the wood. his own smile softened in response, and he turned his hand over to tangle his fingers with yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. "i think i would have liked her too," you said, your voice a little shaky. "even with the threat of culinary espionage."
as if summoned by your shared laughter, chiyo-san appeared at your table with a pot of jasmine tea and a knowing smile, her approach breaking the tender moment. "the usual for you, gojo-kun?"
"the usual sounds perfect," he confirmed, then turned to you with a slightly sheepish expression, running his hand through his hair in that nervous gesture. "i hope you don't mind me ordering for both of us. she knows what i like, and trust me, you want what i'm having."
"i trust you," you said, and something in his eyes flickered with pleasure at the words, his whole posture straightening slightly.
chiyo-san bustled away, and you found yourselves alone again in the warm bubble of the corner booth. the awkwardness you'd expected on a first date was nowhere to be found—instead, conversation flowed as easily as it did in your cafe, maybe easier without the professional barriers.
"so," he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on the table, "tell me something i don't know about you."
you considered this, idly tracing patterns on the wooden table with your finger, the surface smooth from years of use. "i didn't always want to run a bakery," you admitted, glancing up to find his attention completely focused on you, those storm-glass eyes intent and curious. "i went to university for literature. thought i'd be a translator, maybe work in publishing."
"what changed your mind?" his question came with that particular quality of attention he gave you—like you were the only person in the world worth listening to.
"my grandmother," you said, and your smile carried the warmth of a thousand memories. "she taught me to bake when i was little. not recipes from books, but the kind of knowledge that lives in your hands. how to tell when dough is ready by feel, how to adjust for humidity, all those little secrets that make the difference between good and extraordinary."
you paused as chiyo-san returned with plates of food—golden karaage chicken that smelled like heaven, perfectly chewy ramen with rich, cloudy broth, gyoza with crispy bottoms and tender tops, and several small dishes you didn't recognize but immediately wanted to try. the portions were generous enough to feed a small army.
"this looks incredible," you breathed, the savory aroma making your mouth water.
"chiyo-san's love language is overfeeding people," satoru explained, already reaching for his chopsticks with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this countless times. "but finish your story. about your grandmother."
you took a tentative bite of the karaage and nearly made an embarrassing sound of pleasure at the perfect balance of crispy exterior and juicy interior, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. "oh my god, this is amazing."
"right?" his smile was proud, like he'd made it himself, and you caught the way he watched you taste everything, cataloguing your reactions with obvious satisfaction. "best in the city. now keep talking."
"well," you continued between bites, your chopsticks moving with less grace than his but no less enthusiasm, "when she got sick, i took leave from my job to take care of her. we spent months baking together, and she made me promise to keep her recipes alive. not just the techniques, but the feeling behind them. the idea that food can be comfort, celebration, love made tangible."
your voice grew softer, more vulnerable, and you found yourself looking down at your bowl. "she died two weeks before i was supposed to start my master's program. instead of going back to school for my master's, i realized what i really wanted. i used my savings for culinary school instead, and then opened flour & sugar. some days i think she'd be proud. other days i wonder if i gave up too easily on my original dreams."
satoru's chopsticks stilled in his bowl, and when you looked up, his expression was gentle, understanding written in the soft set of his features. "you didn't give up," he said quietly, and there was conviction in his voice that made your chest tight. "you just found a different way to tell stories. every pastry you make, every customer you welcome—that's narrative too. connection. meaning."
the simple validation made your throat tight with emotion, and you had to blink back the sudden threat of tears. "you think so?"
"i know so," he said firmly, leaning forward slightly, his intensity focused entirely on you. "because i've been living that story for two months now. every morning at 10:47, getting to be part of whatever magic you create in that little space."
you felt heat bloom in your cheeks, partly from his words and partly from a sudden realization that had been nagging at you all evening. "satoru," you started hesitantly, your fingers tightening around your chopsticks, "can i ask you something?"
"anything," he said, then caught your serious tone and set down his chopsticks entirely, giving you his complete attention.
"your routine," you said carefully, worrying your lower lip between your teeth, "your content schedule, your training… am i messing that up for you? because if masaru is angry, or if coming to the cafe is interfering with your workouts…"
he was quiet for a long moment, considering his response, and you watched emotions flicker across his face—surprise, thoughtfulness, something that might have been relief. when he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, honest.
"yes," he said simply, and your heart sank until he continued, his mouth quirking into a rueful smile. "you've completely destroyed my routine. i used to plan content three weeks in advance. i had optimal posting times calculated to the minute. i scheduled my life in fifteen-minute increments for maximum engagement."
"satoru—" you started, distress clear in your voice.
"let me finish," he said gently, and there was something in his expression that made you settle back, though worry still thrummed beneath your skin. "you've ruined all of that. and it's the best thing that's ever happened to me."
you stared at him, confusion clear in your expression, your head tilting slightly in that way you had when you were trying to puzzle something out.
"for three years, since swimming didn't work out, i've been pretty happy with what i built," he continued, his hands gesturing as he spoke, and you found yourself watching the elegant movement of his fingers. "good content, solid following, enough brand deals to live comfortably. got to turn all that training discipline into something that actually pays the bills." his smile was easy, confident. "and honestly? i was enjoying it. liked the routine, liked the control, liked seeing the numbers go up."
he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours where they rested beside your ramen bowl, and the touch sent electricity racing up your arm. "but then i found your cafe, and suddenly i had something to look forward to that wasn't about hitting my macros or optimal posting times. something that was just… nice. simple good. like that first bite of your chocolate tart, or the way you hum when you're concentrating, or how you remember exactly how i like my matcha without me having to ask."
his thumb traced across your knuckles, the touch feather-light but grounding, and you found yourself holding your breath. "masaru thinks i've gotten distracted, and he's probably right. but honestly? i'm not complaining. life's been pretty good to me, but this…" he gestured vaguely between you both, "this is something different. something better."
the weight of his confession settled between you like a shared secret, and around you, the restaurant hummed with quiet conversation and clinking chopsticks, but you felt suspended in this moment, in the warm golden light and the earnestness in his eyes.
"so no," he said, his voice dropping to something warm, genuine, meant only for you, "you're not messing anything up. if anything, you're making everything more interesting."
you felt warmth bloom in your chest—relief, happiness, something sweet and uncomplicated swelling until you could barely contain your smile. "that's either the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," you managed, your voice slightly wobbly as you turned your hand palm-up beneath his, fingers intertwining, "or you're really good at making excuses for carb addiction."
he threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and delighted and completely unguarded, and the momentary emotional intensity dissolved into warmth, comfort, the easy joy of sharing a meal with someone who understood the shape of your heart.
"probably both," he admitted, grinning as he brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that made your entire body feel warm. "masaru keeps leaving increasingly desperate notes in my gym locker. yesterday's just said 'vegetables exist, satoru.'"
"he's not wrong," you said, gesturing at the mountain of fried chicken between you with your free hand, though you made no move to let go of his. "this is not exactly influencer food."
"which is why," he said, reaching for another piece of karaage with his chopsticks, absolutely no shame in his expression, "we're going to enjoy every single bite, and tomorrow i'll do an extra workout. balance."
you spent the next hour working through chiyo-san's generous spread, talking about everything and nothing. he told you about growing up in a family that expected perfection, about the pressure of competition, about the crushing disappointment when his swimming career ended with a shoulder injury at nineteen. you shared stories about the early days of the cafe, the learning curve of small business ownership, the quiet satisfaction of creating something with your own hands.
the conversation flowed like you'd known each other for years instead of months, punctuated by his groans of appreciation for the food and your laughter at his increasingly dramatic descriptions of masaru's passive-aggressive campaign to restore his "macro discipline."
"he's started leaving printed meal plans in my gym bag," satoru confessed, twirling ramen noodles around his chopsticks with practiced ease, his expression one of amused exasperation. "like a nutrition-focused fairy, but more judgmental and with better organizational skills."
"maybe you should introduce him to my neighbor," you suggested, dabbing at a drop of broth on your chin with your napkin. "she leaves notes about proper composting technique on everyone's door. they could bond over their shared love of unsolicited improvement projects."
"god, can you imagine?" he grinned, his eyes crinkling with genuine mirth. "they'd have the most organized, health-conscious children in tokyo."
by the time chiyo-san brought you perfectly ripe persimmons and more jasmine tea, the restaurant had begun to empty out. you'd somehow made it through most of the food—a feat that seemed impossible when the plates first arrived—and you felt full in the best possible way, warm and content and slightly drowsy from good food and better company.
"i should probably get you home," satoru said eventually, though his tone suggested he'd rather do anything else, his thumb still tracing absent patterns across your knuckles. "it's getting late, and you have to open tomorrow."
"unfortunately," you agreed, though you made no move to gather your things, reluctant to break the spell of the evening.
he signaled chiyo-san for the check, waving off your attempts to pay with a firm shake of his head that left no room for argument. "this was my idea," he said, his voice carrying that quiet authority that probably served him well in business negotiations. "besides, you make me breakfast five days a week. it's the least i can do."
"that's different," you protested, your cheeks warming. "that's business."
"is it?" he asked, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your pulse skip, the question loaded with weeks of careful circling around each other. "because it hasn't felt like business for a while now."
heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you looked down at your hands, still tangled with his. "no," you admitted quietly, the word barely above a whisper. "it hasn't."
he settled the bill with chiyo-san, who sent you off with a paper bag of extra gyoza "for tomorrow's lunch" and promises that you were welcome back anytime, her knowing smile making it clear she approved of satoru's choice. the night air was cool against your skin as you stepped outside, a pleasant contrast to the warm restaurant, and you pulled your cardigan closer around your shoulders.
"which direction?" satoru asked, offering his arm again, the gesture now familiar and comforting.
you pointed toward the quieter residential area a few blocks away, and he fell into step beside you, matching his longer stride to yours with the easy consideration that seemed to come naturally to him. the streets were less crowded now, mostly couples heading home from dinners and workers catching late trains.
"thank you," you said as you walked, your hand warm in the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid strength of his arm beneath the soft fabric of his sweater. "for tonight. for the flowers. for… all of it."
"thank you," he replied, and there was something wondering in his voice, like he couldn't quite believe his luck, "for saying yes. and for making that cake yesterday. i know it was for me."
you felt a flutter of nervousness in your stomach, your steps faltering slightly. "was it that obvious?"
"the white chocolate feather was a dead giveaway," he teased gently, his voice warm with affection, but then his expression grew more serious. "but even without that, i would have known. you put yourself into everything you create. it's one of the things i…" he trailed off, suddenly uncertain.
"one of the things you what?" you prompted, though your heart was already beating faster, hope and fear warring in your chest.
just as he was about to answer, his phone buzzed sharply, shattering the quiet between you. he flinched, annoyance flashing across his face as he pulled it out. you caught masaru's name before he silenced the call with a jab and shoved the phone back, sighing.
the fragile thread of his confession snapped. he looked away, jaw tight, then met your gaze again—this time not raw, but steadier, warmer, as though he'd chosen a safer honesty.
he stopped walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a street lamp, the light casting golden highlights in his impossible hair. his hands found yours, warm and slightly callused and infinitely gentle, and the touch grounded you even as it sent your pulse racing. "
i had a really good time tonight," he said quietly, his storm-glass eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. "like, really good. better than good."
the words hung in the air between you, warm and honest and making your heart do that familiar flutter-dance in your chest. you felt your breath catch, your entire world narrowing to this moment, this quiet confession, the way he was looking at you like you were something wonderful and unexpected.
"me too," you whispered, your voice full of wonder and possibility.
he looked like he wanted to kiss you then. you could see it in the way his eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, the slight parting of his own. you wanted him to. you wanted it more than you'd wanted anything in a long time. but the moment stretched, suspended and fragile, and neither of you moved. the spell broke when a car passed, its headlights momentarily blinding you both, and the chance was gone.
he cleared his throat, a faint flush on his cheeks, and let go of one of your hands. "we should… get you home."
the rest of the walk passed in a charged, comfortable silence. the unspoken moment from the streetlamp hung between you, electric and full of promise.
"this is me," you said as you reached the small apartment building where you lived above a quiet bookshop, the familiar sight made new by his presence beside you. the white camellias waiting in your cafe felt like they were calling to you, a promise of sweet tomorrows.
he stopped at the entrance, his hands finding the pockets of his cargo pants. "well… goodnight, cupcake." there was a touch of awkwardness in his posture, a reluctance to leave that was both sweet and agonizing.
"goodnight, satoru."
he lingered for a beat longer, his storm-glass eyes holding yours. you knew if you didn't do something now, the night would end on this note of sweet, unresolved tension. and that simply wouldn't do.
before you could lose your nerve, you reached up, your fingers finding the soft collar of his sweater. he looked down at you, surprise widening his eyes. with a soft tug, you pulled his head down towards you. even then, with his six-foot-plus frame bent, you still had to rise up on your tiptoes, stretching to reach him.
it wasn't his lips you found. it was his cheek. you pressed a soft, quick, deliberate kiss to the spot just beside his mouth, your own lips lingering for just a fraction of a second against his skin. it was warm, smooth, and felt impossibly intimate.
"bye," you whispered against his cheek, then you pulled back, let go of his sweater, and practically fled—turning and rushing up the steps to your building's entrance without a backward glance, your cheeks absolutely on fire.
satoru stood frozen on the sidewalk for a full minute after your door clicked shut, stunned into immobility. slowly, his fingers came up to touch the spot on his cheek where your lips had been. a slow, genuine, devastatingly happy smile spread across his face, unguarded and brilliant under the streetlight.
inside, you leaned your back against the cool wood of your apartment door, your heart hammering against your ribs. you brought a trembling hand up to your own lips, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up in your chest. a mix of pure terror and giddy exhilaration coursed through you. what did you just do?
a moment later, your phone buzzed in your bag with a familiar notification sound. you fumbled for it, your hands still shaking, and saw the instagram icon on your screen. it was him. a new message.
squatoru: you missed 😉 but thank you. see you tomorrow, cupcake.
you stared at the screen, a wide, foolish grin spreading across your face. the teasing emoji, the playful admonishment through the same app where this all started, the sweet promise of "tomorrow"—it was perfect. it was everything.
your heart did complicated acrobatics as you typed back a simple, breathless reply. tomorrow, you decided as you got ready for bed, still smiling at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you were going to make him something even better than that cake. something that tasted like jasmine tea and stolen kisses and the beginning of something beautiful.
after all, you had a story to tell. and now you had someone who wanted to read every chapter, someone who understood that the best stories weren't the ones you planned, but the ones that found you when you were busy making other, smaller plans. and you couldn't wait to see what happened in the next chapter.