The first rays of dawn trickled into the kitchen, soft and gold, slipping through the curtains like a shy visitor. The air smelled faintly of milk and sugar—or at least it was supposed to.
Honoka sat on a stool nearby, swinging her tiny legs and watching her sister with a serious expression that looked far too mature for a four-year-old. She was usually quiet with strangers and even with teachers, but at home she spoke freely—only with her mother, Yukino, and lately Ken-san. Her small hands clutched a peeled carrot, though she seemed more interested in Yukino's expression than in helping.
"Ne, Onee-chan," Honoka finally spoke, her soft voice breaking the silence. "For Ken-niisan? Cookies?"
Yukino blinked, half-awake, tying her apron a little too tightly. Her long black hair was loosely tied up, a few strands falling over her violet-tinted eyes. There was a gentle, determined look in her movements this morning—the kind that comes not from routine, but from hope.
"Alright," she murmured, staring at the empty lunchbox before her. "Let's try to make it perfect this time."
The two began a small, clumsy ritual: measuring, mixing, and laughing at the mess. Flour dusted the counter; an egg shell clung to the edge of the bowl; a little too much enthusiasm spilled sugar and a tiny cascade of salt. They didn't notice the extra grain. They worked with hearts in their hands—Honoka humming, Yukino trying not to be too ditzy and failing at hiding her fluttering chest whenever she thought of Ken-san tasting what they made.
When the oven timer finally chimed, the cookies were slightly uneven, imperfect—and warm. Yukino tied them in a small pink cloth pouch. Honoka beamed as if they had created something worthy of a festival.
On the morning train, the carriage moved with its familiar hum. Honoka sat beside her sister, the pouch clutched to her chest. Her feet swung, and she smiled a little too brightly—her rare giggle alone was enough to brighten the nearby faces. Yukino tried to appear calm but her cheeks were flushed, her fingers fidgeting.
The doors opened at the next stop. Ken stepped in.
Today, for one moment earlier in the morning, he had been seen in a yukata; now he wore his usual jumper, hair brushed back, the calm stoic presence everyone knew. He caught sight of the sisters and gave a slight nod as he walked toward them.
Honoka's face shone. She held the pouch out with both hands. "Ken-niisan! Cookies! Me and Yukino made them!"
Yukino's eyes widened, mortified, whispering, "H-Honoka, you didn't have to say that—" Her cheeks burned.
Ken accepted the pouch gently. He untied the ribbon with care, as if the little cloth held something precious. The cookies were uneven, shaped oddly—each one showing the clumsy love that made them human. Ken took one. He ate it, then paused for a tiny beat—his eyes flicked ever so slightly. He didn't say anything. He looked at Yukino kindly and kept eating.
"I was quite hungry," he said after finishing a small handful. "They're oishii." His voice was calm and true. He folded the cloth, handed the empty pouch back to Honoka, patted her head once, and when his stop came he stood, gave a quiet nod to the sisters, and left the train with the same quiet dignity he always carried.
Honoka giggled, delighted. "Ken-niisan ate them all! He liked them!"
Yukino exhaled, a confusion of relief and embarrassment warming her chest. Momo glanced over and covered a smile; Ren leaned back, pretending not to care but clearly watching. Yukino puffed out a small pride, then blushed as Momo teased her.
Later that day, Yukino found the pouch tucked into her bag—Ken had folded it neatly before returning it. She smiled faintly and reached inside; one small cookie remained.
She lifted it and took a tiny bite—expectation on her tongue—and then horrified realization.
"S-salt?" she whispered, her face draining color. "SALTYYYY! Oh no!"
Her stomach dropped. He ate all of them… like that? The thought crashed through her. Did he pretend to like them to save her? Was he being kind? Or did he secretly dislike them? The panic and the warm aftertaste of being admired tangled in her chest.
Momo noticed Yukino's sudden pallor but didn't press. Honoka hummed happily, unaware, drawing in her sketchbook. Yukino tucked the pouch away, forcing a small smile. "It's nothing," she told Honoka softly. Honoka must not know.
That night Yukino couldn't sleep. She sat in the dim light of the apartment, watching Honoka sleep on the small bed, the child's breathing soft and even. Yukino whispered to herself, rehearsing awkward apologies and comedic confessions, worrying whether she should bake again or simply tell Ken-san the truth. Her thoughts swirled: What do I say tomorrow? Should I bake again? What if he doesn't eat them next time? The questions kept her awake until exhaustion finally claimed her in the chair.
In the morning she woke late. There wasn't time to bake another batch. She sighed, disappointed, and roused Honoka. They hurried to catch the train—Honoka with her usual bento, bright and expectant; Yukino pale and fidgeting, heart thumping.
On the next morning train Ken entered in his more familiar, calm element—jumper on, hair brushed back—serene and composed. He nodded at the sisters. Honoka stretched both arms toward him, wordless and trusting: pick me up, sit me next to you.
Ken smiled a little and did just that—lifting Honoka from Yukino's lap and seating her beside him. As always, he treated the child with a gentle patience that made the carriage feel safe.
Yukino swallowed hard; her voice came out a whisper. "Ken-san… about the cookies…"
Ken leaned in, as if to make sure only she would hear. His tone was soft and deliberate. "It's not about the salty cookies. Mistakes happen. It's about the gesture. Arigatou. I really enjoyed them."
His words were small but precise—reassuring in their calm. Yukino could only nod, heat rushing to her neck. He was close; the nearness made her heart stumble. For a moment she could not form anything but a shy, breathless smile.
Ken set Honoka beside him and, as he always did, opened the little bento. Patiently, naturally, he fed Honoka small bites—an intimate, ordinary ritual by now. Honoka laughed at every mouthful. The carriage smiled with them.
Yukino watched quietly, feeling something unfamiliar unfurl inside her—warmth, confusion, and a gentleness she'd never named before. The train moved on, morning light sliding across faces; Honoka's giggle and Ken's calm hands made the ordinary feel soft and new.