The okonomiyaki store welcomed them with a wave of gentle heat and the savory, nostalgic scent of grilled batter and cabbage. The space was narrow and wood-paneled, the kind that hadn’t changed in years, with low, warm lighting that softened the edges of everything. The windows were slightly fogged from the steam, and along the walls hung faded menus, paper fans, and autographs from actors no one under forty would recognize. It was the kind of place that held time loosely, like it knew how to keep things safe.

  Mira made her choice the moment they stepped inside.

  Drawn to the long counter at the center of the shop—where the iron teppan ran its full length and the chef worked in rhythmic, practiced movements—she walked straight toward the middle and took the seat without hesitation, where she could sit elbow to elbow with the scent of grilled batter, the hiss of oil, and the sight of okonomiyaki being shaped from scratch right in front of her eyes.

  She tucked the sleeves of her furisode carefully as she settled in, and placed her hands neatly on her lap, already leaning forward in anticipation. There was something about this arrangement—the heat of the grill, the clatter of metal tools, the steam rising in gentle waves—that made her feel completely and blissfully present.

  Adrian followed, taking the seat beside her with ease. His movements were slower, less reactive, as if reading the room and her mood at once. The fabric of his kimono brushed lightly against her as he sat, but neither of them pulled away.

  Mira had already forgotten her bad luck fortune—or perhaps, she had simply decided to let it wait somewhere outside.

  Mira turned slightly toward him, her eyes still shining from the warmth of the teppan and the rhythm of the chef’s movements. “So,” she said, brushing a bit of hair behind her ear, “what’s your favorite?”

  Adrian looked toward the bowls, then to the menu board hanging above the counter, before returning his gaze to the ingredients in front of them. “The original,” he said. “With seafood.”

  She leaned a little closer to the table, pleased. “Then I’ll take the soba one. Balance.”

  Across the counter, the chef began to work—pouring the batter into careful circles. Steam lifted in soft curls as he added layer after layer—cabbage sliced so finely it looked like paper, green onions, pork belly, and a scatter of crunchy tempura bits.

  The eggs cracked with a practiced motion, yolk catching the light. Powder sifted down like snowfall. The scent was warm and savory, thick with promise.

  Mira leaned forward, hands folded under her chin, eyes fixed on the chef’s every movement. When the yakisoba was added to hers, sizzling and curling on the pan, she gave a soft, delighted sound without realizing it—somewhere between a sigh and a hum, full of wonder. The cabbage mound was flipped with smooth precision, and she gasped softly, her cheeks rising in excitement.

  She was fully present—absorbed in the little world unfolding in front of her. While the chef skilfully layered the batter, Mira silently reached into her sleeve and carefully placed her phone on the table's edge. With the softest tap, she began recording—not for show, not even with the intent to post—just to keep it, the steam and sound and rhythm of the motion, the kind of memory that felt too fleeting to trust to words alone.

  Her eyes followed the movement of the spatulas with rapt attention, her brows lifting whenever the chef added something unexpected. The curl of steam rose between them, and she leaned in a little, adjusting the angle slightly, not even checking the frame. It didn’t matter. She was capturing the feeling more than the image.

  Then, just as the chef flipped a thick layer of cabbage with a practiced sweep of the spatula, Mira leaned slightly toward Adrian and whispered, half amused, half serious, “Do you think we’re going to smell like seafood and sobayaki from top to toe after this?”

  “Probably.”

  She gave a small, dramatic sigh, but her eyes sparkled as she looked back toward the sizzling grill. “Well, yeah,” she said with a shrug, hands folded under her chin. “We’ll take the full Japanese scent experience back to campus… but totally worth it.”

  The sizzle had softened by now, the steam thinning into a warm haze that shimmered above the teppan. With practiced ease, the chef tapped the edge of his spatula against the hotplate twice, then cut each okonomiyaki into four even quarters—precise, clean strokes. The layered soba of Mira’s portion held its shape like a golden, savory cake, while Adrian’s seafood version released a richer aroma as it was gently slid toward them on wide metal spatulas.

  The portions settled in front of them with a soft hiss, the heat still rising, the sauce glistening beneath a scatter of bonito flakes that danced like paper-thin leaves in the breeze.

  Her hands came together in a small clap before rising to cover her mouth, as if to keep the smile from spilling too quickly. Her eyes sparkled, wide and bright, fixed on the okonomiyaki like it was a painting that might vanish if she blinked too fast.

  “This is… so beautiful I feel like I need to apologize before eating it.”

  Adrian reached for his chopsticks but stopped as she raised her hand quickly, her voice lifting with playful urgency.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Wait, wait—don’t touch it yet! I need a picture first.”

  With delicate fingers, she drew her phone from the inner fold of her sleeve. Leaning slightly forward, she positioned it carefully, sleeves pushed back, her expression alight with focus.

  “It deserves to be remembered,” she said, almost like she meant it.

  Then, with a sudden spark of mischief in her eyes, Mira turned slightly in her seat, shifting away from the pan. She raised her phone, angling it back toward them, trying to catch both their faces and the warm, steam-haloed glow of the okonomiyaki behind.

  But Adrian, seated just behind and to her left, didn’t quite fit into the frame. His face was half-shadowed, and the camera was tilting dangerously toward her elbow.

  “Hold still,” she mumbled, trying again.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, without a word, Adrian reached out and gently took the phone from her lifted hand. His fingers brushed her palm—unapologetic, light—and then he shifted closer, his shoulder nearly behind hers now, their sides aligned. He raised the phone high with practiced ease.

  “This is a physics issue,” he said calmly. “Your arm’s too short.”

  Before she could protest, he leaned in a little—closer than necessary—and snapped the photo.

  Click.

  And just like that, he handed the phone back, sat straight again, and picked up his chopsticks as if nothing unusual had happened.

  Mira stared at the screen.

  Then at him.

  “…You posed.”

  He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even look at her.

  “Problem solved,” he said.

  She looked back at the photo—his face perfectly angled beside hers, expression calm, serene, just this side of amused. The okonomiyaki behind them steamed like a miniature sun. Her cheeks were warm, and she wasn't sure if it was from the food or the distance he’d erased so effortlessly.

  Then came his voice, low and smooth.

  “Send me that.”

  She blinked, still looking at the screen. “Why?”

  From beside her, he turned slightly, not fully—but enough that his gaze found her.

  “You still owe me one wish,” he said, like it was nothing. Like this counted.

  Mira blinked at him, then squinted suspiciously. “So that’s your wish? Just… the photo? That simple?”

  “Do you want me to ask for another one?”

  “Nope,” she said instantly, clutching her phone like it might save her. “No need. This is fine. Perfect, even. Great wish. Good choice.”

  He turned back to his food with an air of victory, while Mira, cheeks now fully pink, tried very hard not to imagine what another wish might’ve sounded like from him. Especially with the way he looked at her just now—as if he hadn’t even used up the real one.

  “Okay,” she declared, hands clasped before her like a small ceremony. “Itadakimasu!”

  There was nothing shy about it—she meant it, deeply and with all the eagerness of someone ready to devour joy, not just food. She picked up her chopsticks with care, her movements quick and clumsy and entirely sincere.

  The first bite was followed by a small, dramatic sigh of happiness.

  “This is dangerous,” she said with her mouth still half-full. “I could fall in love with this.”

  “With the okonomiyaki?”

  “With the okonomiyaki and the pan. I want one. I want to live in a house where the table cooks for me.”

  She kept eating with small delighted noises, then paused, tapping the edge of her plate thoughtfully.

  “I still think my fortune was a bit harsh,” she said, finally circling back. “I mean, ‘shifting form’ and ‘don’t burn out’? Sounds more like a bad science experiment than life advice.”

  Adrian, still calmly cutting into his okonomiyaki, didn’t look up when he spoke.

  “If you hadn’t followed it,” he said, “you wouldn’t be worrying about it now.”

  Mira gave him a look, mid-chew.

  “Are you comforting me or provoking me?”

  “I just told the truth.”

  “Remind me never to come to you for emotional support.”

  “You don’t need emotional support. You just need someone who doesn’t panic when you do.”

  Her chopsticks froze mid-air, forgotten. Urghh. How could one person be this calm while casually lighting emotional fireworks in someone else’s brain?

  A second ago, she was still internally spiralling over how his hand felt brushing hers and how he looked at her when no one else did. She’d barely wrangled her fluster back into its box. And now—this. A sentence that sounded like it came straight out of a therapist’s diagnostic sheet.

  She leaned back with a tiny huff, still trying to recover what was left of her pride.

  “Thinking about it now…” she said, her lips pushing into a pout, “my bad luck probably came from being next to you.”

  Adrian didn’t respond right away, simply reaching for his tea like her accusation was part of the meal.

  “You totally stole all the good fortune,” she went on, waving her chopsticks at him like she was about to cast a hex. “Left me with the misfortune leftovers. You should be responsible for that.”

  “Alright. I’ll take the responsibility.” He paused for a second, looking at her.

  “…Wha–t?” She paused.

  “I said I’ll take the responsibility for your misfortune,” he repeated, as if offering her the weather forecast.

  Mira squinted at him. “Don’t say that so casually.”

  Adrian turned toward her, unfazed. “You’re the one who brought it up. In an okonomiyaki store.”

  She wrinkled her nose, glaring at him like he’d just suggested replacing her tea with soy sauce. “Has anyone ever told you you’re detestable?”

  “No one’s had the chance to say it to my face.”

  “Well,” Mira huffed, still holding her chopsticks as one hand rested at the edge of the table, “now you have one.”

  He watched her stuff her mouth with okonomiyaki like it was a tactical maneuver, saw the fluster sneak up from her collarbones to her ears—and that was enough. The answer he wanted wasn’t in her words anyway.

  He just turned back to his own plate, letting the silence settle like steam over the hotplate—gentle, unspoken, and oddly comforting.

  After all, Mira Larkspur was already flustered enough.

  And she had no idea he’d meant every word.

  ?