Warmth

After Yuko’s mom disappeared back into the kitchen, the room seemed to exhale. Yuko let out a long, slow breath, the tips of her ears still pink.
“I’m… really sorry about her,” she said, her voice low and a little flustered. “She’s like that with everyone. Teasing is basically her second language.”

Kenji shook his head quickly. “No, no, it’s fine. Really. I don’t take jokes like that seriously.” He gave a small, awkward shrug. “It’s kind of nice, actually.”
Yuko blinked. “Nice?”
“To be… teased. It means someone noticed you enough to joke.” He realized how that sounded and looked down, rubbing the back of his neck.
For a moment, Yuko just looked at him this boy with a cleaned cut on his cheek, who blushed easier than anyone she’d ever met, who wore his loneliness like a faint, familiar scent. She let out a soft breath, a genuine smile finally touching her lips.
“Alright,” she said, her tone shifting from apology to practicality. “We should go to the kitchen. If we don’t, Mama will probably just yell”

“Love birds! Hurry up, the curry’s getting cold!” her mother’s voice rang out, perfectly on cue, from down the hall.
Yuko closed her eyes, a patient, practiced smile on her face. “See? That.”
Kenji couldn’t help it he laughed. A quiet, surprised sound. “You two are really funny.”
“Don’t smile like that,” Yuko mumbled, but there was no heat in it. She reached out, offering a hand to help him up from the low sitting cushion. “Now come on. Before she comes back and says something even worse.”
Her hand was warm, her grip firm. Kenji took it, and for a second, he forgot how to stand. Then he was up, and she was already turning toward the hallway, the moment passing as quickly as it came.


The kitchen was a world of warmth and noise. Steam rose from pots on the stove, and the air was rich with the smell of simmering curry, rice, and miso soup. A small wooden dining table was set for three, each bowl and plate arranged with care.
Yuko’s mother stood by the stove, a ladle in hand and a triumphant glint in her eyes. “Took you two long enough! Getting lost in each other’s eyes, were you? Hahaha!”
“Mama,” Yuko said, the word a long-suffering sigh. She took a slow, centering breath, the way one might before facing a mild natural disaster. “You are something else. Always teasing. Anyway let’s just have dinner, please.”
“Of course, of course! Sit, sit!”

They sat. Yuko’s mother placed a heaping bowl of curry rice in front of Kenji, then one for Yuko, then herself. But instead of eating, she simply… watched.
Her eyes were fixed on Kenji not glaring, but studying. It was the intense, appraising gaze of a mother bird inspecting a new twig in her nest. Kenji shifted in his seat, the comfortable warmth of the food doing little to melt the discomfort under her stare.
He took a bite. It was delicious hearty, slightly sweet, deeply comforting. But her eyes were still on him.
He swallowed softly. “Um… Miss? Do you… need something?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, no!” She waved a hand, her smile widening. “Just wondering, kiddo. Is my cooking good?”
“It’s really good,” Kenji said earnestly. “It’s… the best I’ve had in a long time.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Good, good! So, tell me, kiddo”

Yuko, who had been quietly eating, paused. She knew that tone. That was the ”I’m about to conduct an interview” tone.
“what’s your name? What’s your dream? What’s your type? And… most importantly…” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What are your plans for the future?”
Yuko set her chopsticks down with a soft, definitive clink.
“Hai. Hai. I’m done,” she announced, her voice flat. She stood up. “I’m going to get some sunlight in the garden. It’s suddenly… very cold in here.”

She didn’t look at Kenji. She just walked out, sliding the kitchen door shut behind her with a quiet but firm thud.
Silence, save for the gentle bubble of the stew pot.
Kenji was now alone with a smiling, curious mother and a bowl of curry that suddenly felt like the center of the universe.
He looked from the closed door to Yuko’s mother’s expectant face.
“…My name is Kenji,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper.
And under the weight of a gaze that felt both terrifying and strangely kind, he began to answer. Awkwardly, honestly, piece by piece offering up fragments of himself in the warm, spicy air of a kitchen that felt more like home than anywhere he’d ever been.


END OF CHAPTER 4