The restaurant felt smaller with all of them inside, but the warmth made up for the cramped quarters. Kaito moved between the kitchen and their table, setting down plates of grilled fish that still sizzled, fresh bread that steamed when broken, and bowls of rich soup. The steam carried the scent of salt and bay leaves, a smell so close to a forgotten memory of home it made his shoulders ache to relax.
Pierre watched the man's weathered hands as he served them, noting how they trembled slightly. Not from age or weakness, but from emotion barely held in check. Kaito's dark eyes, so much like Mika's, kept finding Pierre's face. The man looked at him not with a simple thank you, but with a raw, unguarded reverence that felt heavier than any debt.
"Papa cried when you punched the mean man," Mika announced cheerfully, tearing into her bread. "Happy tears though! Mama cried too, but she always cries when she's cooking."
