I swallowed hard. My pulse thundered in my ears so fiercely I was sure she could hear it. All around us, the ramen shop's rhythm softened to a dull roar—the scrape of chopsticks, the hiss of broth, the clink of bowls—everything fading into an indistinct backdrop. In that instant, nothing mattered except the space between us.
I'd planned this moment down to each syllable. In my mind, I saw her nod, saw her laugh, imagined her surprise. None of those rehearsals prepared me for the raw weight of her gaze. Her chestnut eyes were fixed on mine, steady and curious. My fingers dug into the coarse oak countertop, and I drew a steadying breath, tasting the tang of miso and garlic on my tongue.
Her hand hovered, then brushed my forearm—light, tentative. That single touch unraveled the tight coil of my nerves and transformed it into something fierce.
"Hey," she said softly, voice edged with concern. "What's up? Something wrong with my ramen?"
I leaned forward, careful not to break the space between us. Steam curled from the lacquered bowl, drifting upward like silent witnesses. My heart pounded so loudly I could almost feel its echoes in the air.
"It's not the ramen," I said, my voice low but clear. She blinked. "It's you."
She paused, confusion flitting across her face. The lantern above us swung slightly, casting warm amber light on her features—the gentle arch of her eyebrows, the soft plane of her cheek, the way her lips parted when she waited. Her silence pulled me deeper into the moment.
"You?" she whispered. "Why me?"
I closed my eyes, willing the tremor in my chest to settle. When I opened them again, every detail snapped into focus: her lashes brushing her cheek, the stray hairs escaping her ponytail, the faint glow of her ribbon in the lamp's light.
"I've watched you work," I said, my voice rough with urgency. "The way you move behind the counter—effortless and precise. You don't just serve ramen; you shape it. You craft it like art. Every bowl you set down carries a piece of you."
My palms pressed flat against the wood, and I leaned closer. "You feel more alive to me than anyone I've ever known. And… I get this strange sense of nostalgia when I look at you. I don't know why."
Her breath hitched. She let her fingers slide from my arm to the counter's edge. The orange ribbon at her nape caught the light, shimmering like embers. For a moment, she looked unsure, her shoulders tensing.
"You make me sound otherworldly," she said in a hush. "I'm just… me."
My gaze didn't waver. "Your 'me' is everything. When you smile, even the dimmest corner of this shop lights up. When you lock eyes with me, it feels like you're reaching inside my chest and finding every broken piece—and choosing not to turn away."
She stared at me, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths. The world around us seemed to shrink, leaving only the two of us suspended in silent confession.
"Am I weird for suddenly saying something like this to a woman I just met a few minutes ago?" I asked, my voice quieter now. "But… I feel like I know everything about you. Like how you're hiding something behind those pretty smiles. Something sad. Something about betrayal and trust." I hesitated. "Sorry if I'm wrong. People say I'm pretty good at reading personalities."
I tried to smile.
She bit her lip, and I thought I saw tears gather in the corners of her eyes. Her fingertips curled around the edge of the counter, anchoring herself. Her stare was fierce now—afraid, hopeful, testing me.
Then she spoke: "I never expected… this. It's real."
I reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin was warm, and the faint scent of jasmine drifted between us. I kept my hand there, hesitating for the first time, feeling the surge of something deeper than words.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "How can I know this isn't just… the moment? How do I know you mean it when the steam clears?"
A pained smile cracked on my lips. I glanced at the bowl of ramen before us—its surface still steaming, untouched. Then I looked back at her. "Because I'd say it even if there was no booth, no broth, no shop. I'd stand in any place and tell you the same thing."
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against my shoulder. I felt her breath slow as she settled into that simple contact. My chest tightened with relief and a fierce protectiveness.
"I also don't understand why I feel longing for a man I just met. For you. Did we know each other before?"
Remembering my bloody life and her calmly cooking ramen, I answered, "I don't think so."
Aika was silent for a moment and smiled faintly. "I think so too."
I slid an arm around her waist, pulling her just enough that our sides pressed together. Not too close—just close enough that neither of us could pretend this was anything but real. " not just the chef here," I said softly. "You're the spark that makes this place alive."
She laughed—a quiet, raw sound that struck me like music. "And you," she whispered, "are full of surprises."
I pressed my forehead to hers. "Only because you make it impossible to hide."
Her lips curved into a smile that lit the shadows around us. The shop's warm glow felt suddenly intimate, cocooning us from the night beyond the windows.
Then—the bell over the front door shrieked. Three silhouettes spilled into the shop at once. The first raised a pistol and fired before anyone could react. A sharp crack echoed as a customer at the counter grabbed his shoulder and slumped sideways, crimson blooming across his shirt.
Behind him, the second robber swept past with a long dagger glinting in the lantern light, slashing at the chef's outstretched arm. The chef yelped, dropping his ladle. The third stood at the threshold, katana drawn, its blade catching steam like liquid silver.
Chaos exploded. Patrons screamed and dove for cover beneath tables. Aika went rigid against me, eyes wide. The pistol-wielder barked orders, voice cold: "Empty your pockets! Now!"
My pulse roared. I tightened my grip on Aika's hand, heart hammering. The wounded man lay bleeding on the floor, his groan low and ragged. Blood pooled around him, thick and dark.
The dagger-wielder lunged toward the counter, blade slicing through the air. I shoved Aika back as I rose, every muscle coiled. Steam drifted past, the scent of garlic turning metallic in my nostrils.
The katana-bearer stepped forward, feet ringing on the wood floor. The robber with the pistol trained his muzzle on the crowd, finger tightening on the trigger.
Then—with a snarl—the pistol barked again, this time into the ceiling. Splinters rained down as the single shot cracked the charged air.