Yasuo did not sleep.
He didn't trust himself to. He lay stiffly on the floor of his own room, clutching his favorite worn BL manga—the kind where the Seme was a brooding protector who secretly craved affection. The irony was so thick he could spread it on a Melón Pan.
Down the hall, the real-life brooding protector was asleep in the spare room. And Yasuo had told him what to do. The memory of Daisetsu's intense eyes, the sheer power in his voice when he ordered Yasuo to keep their secret, kept the baker wide awake.
Only sugar and flour leave this apartment. Yasuo shivered, but not from cold. It was the thrill of the forbidden, mixed with genuine fear. He was holding a secret for a dangerous man, and his heart loved every second of it.
Just before sunrise, when the bakery below was starting to fill with the comforting scent of rising dough, Yasuo finally crept out. He had to check on the patient and prepare the morning mise en place before Grandma Mayonaka woke up.
He tiptoed to the spare room. Daisetsu was still asleep, lying on his back. His chest rose and fell evenly. The clean, oversized gym shirt Yasuo had lent him looked ridiculous—too short, too stretched over that absurdly wide frame. It was a hilarious, yet intensely intimate sight.
Okay, he's not dead. Stil alive... Thank God. Yasuo quickly checked the bandages. They were dry. The fever seemed to have broken.
He retreated, rushing downstairs. He needed the distraction of work. Kneading the heavy sourdough was usually therapy, but this morning, the repetitive action felt like hiding.
He was elbow-deep in flour when the small, insistent bell above the back door chimed.
"Morning, Yasuo," came a voice as dry and warm as a freshly baked cookie.
Mayonaka-obaasan, Yasuo's grandmother and co-owner, stepped into the kitchen. She was 75, tiny, and carried the quiet authority of a zen master. She smelled faintly of jasmine tea and powdered sugar.
Yasuo jumped, nearly sending a cloud of flour into the air. "G-good morning, Grandma! I thought you were sleeping in."
"I am never sleeping when there is dough to rise," she replied, heading straight for the industrial mixer. She paused, sniffing the air deeply. "And I smell something new."
Yasuo's blood ran cold. "New? What do you mean, new?"
"Besides the usual yeast and cinnamon," she said, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "There is a scent of tension. And a very distinct, metallic tang."
Yasuo frantically started turning on the ovens to burn off the residual smell of blood. "Oh! That's just... the new iron tray! It's reacting to the dough!"
Mayonaka-obaasan raised a single, perfectly arched eyebrow. She took her time retrieving a cup of tea from the small kettle, then she slowly walked toward the stairs.
Yasuo's entire body went rigid. "Grandma! Wait! Don't—"
But she was already on the steps, moving with deceptive speed. Yasuo didn't even try to stop her. He just stood by the counter, gripping a whisk so hard his knuckles were white. This is it. I'm grounded for life. She's going to freak out that I brought a wounded stranger home!
A minute later, Mayonaka returned, looking completely unperturbed. She sat down at the small prep table and calmly took a sip of her tea.
"Well," she said, nodding approvingly. "That young man has a good back. A strong back is hard to find these days, Yasuo. Too much time on those little phones."
Yasuo gaped. "You... you saw him? He's injured! He was in a fight!"
"Yes," she agreed simply, taking another sip. "He's asleep. And he has respectable trousers, even if they are torn. They're expensive wool. He's clearly not a vagrant."
"But Grandma, he's a teacher! And he was hurt by—"
"By life, Yasuo," she cut in gently. "Everyone gets hurt by life. But the ones who come back to a place of warmth are the clever ones. Now, stop panicking and put some yeast in that sourdough. It's flat."
Yasuo was stunned into silence. Her acceptance wasn't just calm; it was immediate and utterly non-judgmental. It seemed her Wise Catalyst archetype was fully activated.
"He says his name is Daisetsu Nakamura," Yasuo finally managed, his voice soft.
"Daisetsu," she repeated, tasting the name. "A nice, strong name. Now, go wake him up. Guests must never sleep through the smell of fresh Anpan."
Yasuo hesitated, but Mayonaka's look was clear. Go.
He returned upstairs. Daisetsu was awake now, sitting up, holding the flimsy gym shirt closed with one hand. He looked less terrifying, more exhausted.
"Your grandmother," Daisetsu said, his voice scratchy. "She gave me this soup. I heard the most terrifying sound—a small bell and a gentle hum. I thought I was hallucinating."
"That's just Grandma," Yasuo chuckled, the tension easing slightly. "She is immune to drama."
"I need to leave," Daisetsu insisted, though he didn't try to move. "I can't impose. I must repay you."
Yasuo walked over and sat carefully on the edge of the futon, ignoring the rush of heat that proximity brought. "Grandma says you're staying until we're sure you won't bleed all over her flour. And she doesn't take money from the injured."
"Then I owe you a debt," Daisetsu said, his tone turning serious and formal. It was the language of the Stoic Protector. "Name your price. I will repay the debt."
Yasuo's mind, which was usually so quick with a sarcastic comeback, went completely blank. He didn't want money. He didn't want things. What did he want from this complicated, wounded man?
He looked around the small room—the small room that now smelled faintly of expensive cologne and Daisetsu's own unique, hot strength.
"I... I need help lifting the big sacks of flour," Yasuo blurted out, the first thing that came to his mind. "We get a new shipment on Monday. They're heavy. Grandma can't manage them anymore."
Daisetsu stared at him, then a faint, surprised smile touched his lips. It was a genuine smile, small but bright.
"Flour sacks," Daisetsu repeated. "A fair price. Consider the debt accepted."
He pushed himself up to a sitting position. He was still wearing the oversized gym shirt, but now, he seemed to radiate a new sense of purpose.
"Then I insist on coming every morning for two weeks," Daisetsu stated, his tone firm. "Until the debt is cleared. I'll help you lift, clean, or whatever else your grandmother needs."
Yasuo could only nod, his cheeks starting to heat up again. This was going to be an adventure. He was getting a dangerously handsome, highly-motivated teacher as his personal, non-paid helper.
This is better than any manga plot.
Daisetsu slowly swung his legs over the side of the futon. He tried to stand, but a sharp wince of pain crossed his face. He stumbled slightly, reaching out to brace himself on the wall.
Yasuo instinctively rushed forward to steady him, placing his hand firmly on Daisetsu's elbow. Their eyes met, and this time, the intensity wasn't threatening—it was purely male, and charged with awareness.
"Careful, Sensei," Yasuo whispered, his heart pounding. "You're still weak."
Daisetsu gripped Yasuo's elbow back, grounding himself against the baker's steady warmth. He leaned in just slightly, his breath hot against Yasuo's ear, and murmured: "Call me Daisetsu. If I'm paying a debt, we should be on a first-name basis, shouldn't we, Yasuo?"