The steam from the miso soup drifted lazily between them

The steady ticking of the clock filled the room, accompanied by the faint rush of running water from the sink and the soft, familiar sounds of cookware being set aside. That was all it took to pull Mikado from his thoughts.

        He lay sprawled across the edge of the table rather than sitting properly, back arched and shoulders sinking into the cool wood as if gravity itself had grown heavier. His head tipped back, hair falling into his eyes, exposing the line of his throat as he stared up at the ceiling. One arm hung loosely at his side, fingers curled around a half-eaten apple, its bright red skin stark against his pale knuckles, as if it might offer answers if he looked long enough.

        The grain patterns above him were the same ones he'd memorized years ago, lines and knots etched into his mind through countless sleepless nights. His gaze drifted, unfocused now, no longer really seeing the ceiling at all.

        The academy crept into his thoughts uninvited. The whispers. The looks. The sudden shift in how people spoke his name. Being pulled into the spotlight had never been part of his plans. He had survived by staying unseen, by existing between expectations. Now, there was no between.

        A soft clatter from the kitchen reached him, followed by the low hiss of steam. Mikado turned his head slightly.

        Eto stood by the stove, her movements unhurried and practiced. She didn't look like the Fire Empress there, no commanding presence, no crushing pressure in the air. Just a girl in his apartment, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back loosely, preparing dinner as if she belonged there.

        The sight grounded him more effectively than anything else could.

        He closed his eyes briefly, letting the ticking clock wash over him, not as a countdown, but as proof that time was moving forward, steadily, inevitably.

        "Dinner's almost ready," Eto said without turning around, her voice calm, confident in the simple fact that he was listening.

        "What's the feast?" Mikado asked as he opened his eyes. He watched her hum softly, completely at ease, as she prepared an array of dishes that seemed far too elaborate for just the two of them.

        Eto didn't answer at first. She simply continued humming, lifting a lacquered tray from the counter and carrying it across the carpeted floor with measured steps. The way she walked—balanced, precise, unspilling, felt strangely intimate, almost ceremonial. Like a wife carrying dinner to her husband after a long day.

        She set the tray down, the soft ring of porcelain and glass touching wood oddly satisfying.

        The table filled quickly.

        A steaming bowl of sekihan, glutinous rice tinted red with azuki beans, sat at the center, unmistakable in its meaning. Celebration. Milestones. Auspicious beginnings. Beside it rested grilled sanma brushed with soy and mirin, skin crisp and fragrant, lemon wedges tucked neatly at the side. There was nimono, root vegetables simmered until tender in a delicate dashi, their flavors deep but restrained. Miso soup followed, still gently swirling, tofu cubes and wakame floating like small constellations.

        And then there was the tamagoyaki, perfectly layered, golden, cut with surgical precision.

        "Well," Eto said at last, straightening as she placed the final dish down, "it's to celebrate your appointment to the Public Morals Committee."

        Mikado blinked, then looked back at the spread. "This is… a little more than a celebration."

        Eto finally turned to face him. She smiled.

        It was soft, affectionate, but there was something else threaded through it, a brief, dangerous glint that flashed like lightning behind storm clouds. Power contained, not gone. The Fire Empress reminded him she was still there, even now.

        "You earned it," she said simply, taking a seat across from him. "And besides—" her eyes narrowed just enough to make his spine tingle, "important roles deserve proper beginnings." For a moment, the apartment felt impossibly small. And impossibly warm.

        Eto reached for her chopsticks, still joined together, and snapped them apart with a soft crack. She then picked up a bite of the steaming sekihan and blew on it gently, waiting for the heat to fade before bringing it to Mikado’s lips.

        A warm smile passed through her as her hand remained extended. Mikado opened his mouth, his gaze fixed on her affectionate smile.

        "Itadakimasu," Eto said, offering the customary greeting as she lifted her bowl and began to eat.

        "—Itadakimasu," Mikado echoed, accepting the bowl from Eto with both hands.

        The sekihan was still warm against his palms. He took a bite, the glutinous rice soft and faintly sweet, the azuki beans lending a gentle depth that lingered on his tongue. It wasn't flashy or overpowering, just careful, deliberate. Like her.

        He reached next for the nimono. The vegetables yielded easily, flavors steeped deep in dashi, each bite balanced and restrained. No excess, no waste. Everything was exactly where it needed to be. Mikado found himself exhaling without realizing it.

        The sanma followed, the crisp skin giving way to rich flesh, brightened by a squeeze of lemon. Even the miso soup felt grounding, its warmth spreading slowly through his chest.

        He paused, chopsticks hovering.

        It's good, he thought. Not just good—comforting. The kind of meal that settled something restless inside him, something he hadn't noticed was there.

        Mikado glanced up at Eto, who was eating across from him, watching him from behind the rim of her bowl as if gauging every reaction. A quiet pride flickered in her eyes.

        "…It's really delicious," he said at last. The words felt insufficient. "All of it."

        Eto’s smile softened, just a little.

        Mikado lowered his gaze back to the food, a strange warmth blooming in his chest, one far more dangerous than magic. How many people could say they were eating a meal like this, made by someone like her, for them?

        I'm really lucky… he realized. This is more than I deserve.

        And for once, he allowed himself to simply eat, slowly, carefully, savoring not just the food, but the quiet, precious moment that came with it. 

        "Your friend, by the way," Eto said lightly as she brought her chopsticks to her mouth.

        She didn't need to say his name. Kakeru.

        Mikado swallowed before answering, reaching for the sanma without counting how many bites he had taken. Eto had prepared all of this for him; keeping track felt meaningless. The fish was rich and crisp, grounding him.

        "…Please," he said, a strained laugh slipping out as he glanced at her. "I really don't want to hear it."

        Eto's lips curved, amused. She was clearly about to comment on how Kakeru had been doing since his appointment to the Student Council.

        Mikado could already imagine it, Kakeru sprawled over a desk, complaining endlessly, treating council work like a personal tragedy. Ever since his appointment, his friend had been insufferable. Meetings, paperwork, responsibility, everything Kakeru hated, all at once.

        And somehow, it was Mikado's fault. Kakeru was convinced Mikado had dragged him into it the moment he himself had been appointed to the Public Morals Committee.

        Mikado took another bite, chewing slowly, hoping the warmth of the meal would dull the lingering edge of Kakeru's constant complaints.

        "Oh, please—humor me. I've been looking forward to talking to you about this over dinner," Eto said in a pleading tone, though it was clearly an act meant to tease him. Still, she fully intended to bring it up once they started eating.

        Mikado shrugged in quiet surrender. "The pleasure is mine."

        Eto answered by sticking out her red tongue, playful and unabashed.

        "Well, despite his lack of enthusiasm, he does his job pretty well. In fact, our workload lessened after he joined, and those who were against him slowly began to change their minds," Eto explained, taking a sip of her miso soup.

        Mikado smiled, the quiet pride of a friend shining through.

        "—That reminds me, how's the Morning Star doing?" Mikado asked, smoothly shifting the conversation from Kakeru to Kanzaki. He didn't really mean anything by it, just curiosity. Asking about a former opponent from a mock duel was natural.

        Eto didn't answer right away. Instead, she took Mikado's empty bowl, refilled it with soup, and placed it back in front of him.

        "How would I answer that…" she said after a pause. "Well, he took a leave from the student council."

        Mikado looked up. "A leave?"

        "Who knows when he'll be coming back, or if he'll really come back at all," Eto added, her tone edged with something faintly contemptuous. It wasn't that she hated Kanzaki. But after the duel, and the words he'd thrown at Mikado both before and after, it was impossible for her to see him the same way.

        "He'll come back," Mikado said simply, accepting the bowl as his fingers brushed the warm porcelain.

        "…You really believe that?" Eto asked.

        He nodded once. "Yeah."

        Eto said no more.

        The steam from the miso soup drifted lazily between them, filling the brief pause with warmth. For a moment, it seemed like the conversation would end there.

        Then—

        "It reminds me," Eto said suddenly.

        Mikado stiffened.

        She leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely as her gaze drifted somewhere far from the kitchen. "That duel. With Kanzaki."

        …Ah. There it is.

        "It just came up naturally," Mikado said quickly, lowering his eyes back to the soup. 

        "That reckless thing you did," Eto interrupted, her eyes snapping back to him.

        Mikado winced. "I wouldn't call it reckless."

        Eto stared at him.

        "…Calculated?" he tried.

        Her expression darkened.

        "You challenged one of the strongest students in Second High," she said, each word carefully measured. "What would you have done if fate had decided not to favor you that day?"

        Mikado took a slow sip, clearly buying time.

        "I gained lunch privileges," he said.

        The silence that followed was sharp.

        Eto leaned forward across the wooden table and flicked his forehead.

        "Ow."

        "That's for trying to dodge the subject," she said flatly. "And don't change it. You always do that."

        "I'm not dodging," Mikado replied. "I'm strategically retreating."

        "That's dodging." 

        Eto exhaled, the sharp edge in her expression finally easing. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossing, not in anger this time, but in resignation.

        "…You've said your piece," Mikado said gently, setting his bowl down. "I accept the verdict."

        She glanced at him, then away. "Good. Because I'm not repeating myself."

        A brief silence followed, not the sharp kind from before, but something calmer. The kind that only settled after words had been said and understood.

        Mikado picked up his chopsticks again. "For what it's worth," he added, "I'm still alive."

        "That's not comforting," Eto replied, though her tone had lost its bite.

        "But it's proof."

        She huffed softly, then reached for her own bowl. The clink of porcelain against the table sounded almost domestic.

        "…Just don't make a habit of it," she said at last.

        "No promises," Mikado answered.

        She shot him a look.

        "…I'll try," he corrected.

        That earned him a small, reluctant smile.

        And with that, dinner resumed, not because the subject had been avoided, but because it had been settled.