She jumped, nearly knocking over a jar of salt. "Oh! Ikuma-kun. I was just... I wanted to try that rolled omelet again. The one from your mother’s recipe. I keep overcooking the edges."
Sumi finally looked up, a small, shy smile breaking through her worry. "Together?"
Sumi looked down at the floor, her voice a whisper. "I just want to be a good wife. I feel like I’m still learning the basics while everyone else is already on the advanced lessons." She jumped, nearly knocking over a jar of salt
"Together," he confirmed. "Now, move over. I’ll crack the eggs, you do the folding. If we mess it up, we’re ordering pizza."
As they stood side-by-side in the cramped kitchen, bumping elbows and laughing at a stray shell, the weight of "doing it right" began to lift. They were inexperienced, sure—but they were exactly where they needed to be. I was just
The rain drummed a steady, rhythmic beat against the window of the small apartment, a sound that usually brought Ikuma peace. But tonight, it only amplified the silence sitting between him and Sumi.
He reached out and took her hand, his thumb tracing circles over her knuckles. "But we're doing it together. That’s the only part that actually matters." I keep overcooking the edges
Ikuma walked over and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. He could feel the tension there. They were "inexperienced"—not just in the kitchen, but in the delicate dance of being domestic partners. Every disagreement felt like a crisis; every silent moment felt like a failure to communicate. "You don’t have to perfect it tonight," he said softly.