The next few days went by in a blur of repetitive routines—prep work, lunch service, cleaning, and late-night menu planning. Yet, for Ryo, something had changed. It wasn't just the way he cooked or the way he thought about each dish. It was how often his eyes sought Miyu in the middle of everything.
She was still the same: reserved, sharp, professional. But Ryo began to notice the small things—how her lips twitched slightly when a customer complimented her service, how she smoothed her apron twice before starting her shift, or how she lingered for just a second longer in the kitchen when their paths crossed.
Those moments kept Ryo going. They gave him a reason to keep trying.
One evening, after the restaurant had closed and the staff had mostly gone home, Ryo stayed behind to work on a new recipe. His father had told him they needed something fresh for next month's seasonal menu. But no matter how hard he tried, nothing felt right. Every combination lacked something—flavor, balance, soul.
He stood at the counter, rubbing his temples, when a quiet voice broke the silence.
"Still here?"
He turned. Miyu was standing by the kitchen door, holding her bag, apparently about to leave.
"Yeah," Ryo said, forcing a tired smile. "Trying to come up with something new. It's not going great."
She walked in slowly, placing her bag on the bench. "Can I see?"
Ryo blinked, surprised. "You want to help?"
"I didn't say that," she replied, though her tone was softer than usual. "I'm just… curious."
He stepped aside, letting her examine the half-finished dishes on the counter.
Miyu leaned in, sniffed the sauce, took a small spoon, and tasted it without hesitation. "It's too rich. You're using too much butter in the reduction."
Ryo raised an eyebrow. "Since when did you have a tongue like a food critic?"
She gave a tiny shrug. "I listen. And I pay attention. Doesn't mean I want to cook."
Ryo couldn't help but smile. "You'd be a scary good chef."
"I hate being in the spotlight," she said flatly, looking away.
There was a long pause between them.
Then, without warning, Miyu picked up a bunch of herbs from the nearby basket and started separating the rosemary and thyme leaves from the stems.
"What are you doing?" Ryo asked, amused.
"You said it wasn't going great. I figured I could help—just a little."
He watched her for a moment, quiet admiration in his eyes. She still wore her walls like armor, but in that moment, they were thinner. Just enough for him to see a sliver of the real her.
"Thanks, Miyu," he said softly.
She didn't reply, but he noticed the faintest curl at the corner of her lips.
It wasn't a smile. But it was close.
And for Ryo, that was enough to make his entire night.