Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had seemed like divine luck.

One of her girls, a university student who’d been with them for almost a year, had called in tears. Family emergency back in Nagoya, she’d said. She was so sorry, she’d be gone at least a month, maybe longer, she understood if Haruki needed to replace her—

She’d told her not to worry about it, wished her well, and hung up.

Then she’d stared at the evening schedule and allowed herself exactly thirty seconds of quiet despair.

Running a maid cafe meant running on tight margins: of money, of time, of people. Weekday evening shifts were already stretched thin. Losing someone with no notice, right before the dinner rush, was the kind of problem that didn’t have clean solutions. A help wanted ad would sort things eventually, but eventually didn’t help tonight. She was a few years past squeezing into the outfit herself, and the parade of awkward interviews wouldn’t start until the weekend at the earliest.

Then Ririna, one of her more reliable workers, arrived for her shift and mentioned a classmate looking for a job.

One who could start immediately, even.

Years of managing Moe Moe Kikoho had taught her not to question good fortune when it walked through her door.

The girl, Momo, seemed like a good fit. Her tone was a bit rough, and there was something sharp in her eyes that suggested she didn’t suffer fools gladly. But she was polite, obviously grateful for the opportunity, and willing to start that very evening. There were even a few spare uniforms in her size.

It was always entertaining, seeing someone’s first reaction to the outfit.

Some girls basked in it, twirling in front of the mirror like they’d been waiting their whole lives for an excuse to wear a frilly skirt. Some put on a grim face and bore it like some great burden, a necessary evil in exchange for a paycheck.

But the most common reaction by far, and the one playing out right now, was embarrassment.

Momo stood stiffly in front of the mirror in the cramped back room, face flushed, tugging at the hem of her skirt like she could will it to be longer through sheer determination.

No matter. Everyone got used to it eventually, or they were let go as a bad fit for this sort of job. It wasn’t for everyone, after all. And something she’d learned long ago: the initial reaction had nothing to do with someone’s work ethic.

And Momo, it turned out, had plenty of that.

An excellent listener. Attentive, quick to pick things up, eager to help without being asked. A little awkward with the customers during the first few hours, still finding the rhythm of the greetings and the curtsies, but nothing that couldn’t be polished with practice.

Some patrons found the awkwardness endearing, even. There was a charm to a maid who blushed when she stumbled over the welcome script, as long as she recovered with grace. And Momo certainly did that.

She had a knack for the tray work, too. Impressive, for someone so new. She’d watched Momo weave between tables one busy evening with a stack that should have been two trips, maybe three: four parfaits, three teas, and a pot, all balanced on a single tray at a lopsided angle that made her wince just looking at it. The whole thing should have tipped twice over, but it glided through the room as if held steady by an extra pair of hands.

Good balance. Some people just had it.

It was going well.

Right up until the commotion from the corridor.

She heard it before she saw it: raised voices drifting through the wall, muffled by the elevator lobby but too loud to ignore. A boy’s protests. Girls laughing. The unmistakable sound of someone being dragged somewhere against their will.

“You’ll get thirsty—”

No, I won’t!” 

“Absolutely sure?” A girl’s voice, forceful, almost a shout. “You better not drink anything, then!”

“I won’t drink anything!”

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open, and a trio tumbled out onto the floor.

Two girls flanked a boy in standard Gakuran, each with a firm grip on one of his arms. One had blonde hair in pigtails, grinning like a cat with a cornered mouse. The other had brown hair piled in a messy bun, looking equally amused by her captive’s distress. The boy himself was bespectacled, hunched, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. He was mid-protest when he glanced up at the cafe.

And froze.

Following his gaze, she saw that Momo had frozen too. Serving tray suspended mid-air, face draining of colour before flooding back twice as red. The two of them stared at each other across the floor like deer caught in the same headlights.

Then Momo’s grip slipped, and the tray clattered to the ground.

Rei, not missing a single beat, picked it up and gave the usual spiel.

The two girls burst into cackling laughter, delighted by this development. They shoved the boy forward, calling out for a table for three, taunting Momo to serve them well. The boy, if anything, turned even redder, his earlier protests completely forgotten in favour of staring at Momo like she’d grown a second head.

Or, Haruki thought, like he’d never seen her in a frilly skirt before and his brain was struggling to process the information.

An internal sigh, but she let it go.

Everyone got one. One visit from friends who wanted to tease, one embarrassing encounter with a classmate, one moment of “I can’t believe you’re seeing me in this outfit!” It was practically a rite of passage for new hires.

The fact that neither Momo nor the poor boy seemed to be in on the joke helped their case. They both looked genuinely mortified, which was more than could be said for the two girls still howling with laughter.

Momo recovered first, snatching back the tray, smoothing down her skirt, and marching over to seat them with the kind of determined dignity that only came from sheer force of will. Her voice was steady when she welcomed them, even if her ears were still burning pink.

Good girl. Professional, even under pressure.

The trio ordered drinks and food, didn’t cause too much of a scene, and eventually left. Not before the two girls sandwiched Momo between them for a photograph, though, all three making heart shapes with their hands while the boy was roped in beside them. Momo looked like she was being held at gunpoint. The boy didn’t look much better.

She caught a few more exchanged glances between the two of them after that. Flustered on his part. Somewhere between mortified and... something else on hers.

Interesting.

But not her business. Good-natured teasing from friends was one of her favourite things to witness, honestly. As long as it didn’t cross into cruelty, she was happy to let it play out.

Everyone got one.

As long as it didn’t become a recurring thing, it wouldn’t be a problem.

It became a recurring thing.

Not every shift Momo worked, no. But more and more, she’d walk out to check the floor and there that nervous boy would be. Tucked away in a corner booth, nose buried in homework, nursing a drink like his life depended on it.

The first time, she’d assumed it was a coincidence. Students studied in cafes all the time, and Moe Moe Kikoho was hardly the strangest choice. The second time, she’d raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Everyone had their preferred study spots.

The third time, she started paying closer attention.

It wasn’t hard to spot the pattern. He only ever showed up on Momo’s shifts. He always sat in the same corner, always ordered just enough to justify the table, and always had his eyes firmly fixed on his textbook whenever Momo walked past.

A little too firmly, if you asked her.

And it wasn’t just her noticing.

The other girls had picked up on it too. She’d catch them exchanging glances whenever he walked in, subtle smiles hidden behind menus. Whoever was on hosting duty would lead him to that same corner booth without being asked. And somehow, mysteriously, Momo was always the one who ended up serving his table.

She wasn’t born yesterday. She knew a coordinated effort when she saw one.

The boy himself seemed oblivious to the conspiracy, which was almost impressive. He’d turn pink every time Momo approached, stammer his way through ordering, and then bury his face in his homework the moment she walked away. Momo, for her part, maintained an admirable professionalism, but she caught the way her eyes would drift to that corner booth between orders. The small smile she’d bite back when she thought no one was looking.

She tried to be an accommodating boss. Flexible with scheduling, understanding about school commitments, willing to let small things slide in the name of good morale.

But she had some firm rules.

No boyfriends hanging around during shifts.

She’d learnt that one the hard way. Jealous glares at customers. Distracting conversations. That one incident where a boyfriend had actually tried to fight a patron who’d been a little too friendly with his girlfriend’s curtsey. Never again.

So when she caught Momo between tables during a lull, empty tray tucked under one arm, she pulled her aside with a look that made the girl’s customer-service smile falter.

“A word?”

Momo followed her to the back of the counter, glancing over her shoulder at the corner booth. The boy was oblivious, nose deep in his textbook. Momo seemed to take some comfort in that, squaring her shoulders as she turned to face her manager.

She kept her voice low, direct. She thought she knew exactly how this conversation would go.

She was wrong.

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Momo said, sounding aghast.

Though her cheeks were oddly pink.

Nothing to do but raise an eyebrow at that. As if she hadn’t heard that one before.

“Look, it’s not a problem, is it? I promise he won’t make a fuss, it’s just…”

Momo sighed, biting her lip and looking away.

“He insists on walking me home after my shift… and it would be stupid for him to walk all the way home and back just for that…”

She trailed off, before adding under her breath, “He already has to walk home after…”

“Hmmm.”

A glance around Momo to the boy again. He appeared to be in deep focus, nose buried in a notebook, textbook propped open beside him. She was almost impressed it had taken her this long to actually confront Momo about it. The kid had a talent for blending into the furniture.

She kept a careful eye on all her customers, watching for anyone getting too leery. And she knew this one had barely glanced at any of the girls. Just an awkward smile or stuttered thanks whenever someone else served him or checked how he was doing.

He seemed polite… but what was it they said? Give ‘em an inch and they’ll take a mile.

As she watched, however, Rei stumbled. The customers loved the klutzy maid trope, and frankly with Rei it wasn’t even an act. The tray holding a very hot teapot slid out of her grip and sailed straight toward an unsuspecting patron’s back.

She had only started to call out in warning when the boy was up in a flash. Literally, she could have sworn she saw something red. But he deftly slid his hand under the tray, sweeping it up in a smooth arc before steadying it perfectly.

She watched, oddly transfixed, as a single drop flew from the spout, only for him to tilt the pot just so and catch it right back in.

He and Rei simply stood staring at each other for a beat.

Then he made a rather high-pitched squawk and thrust the tray back at a bewildered-looking Rei, babbling what sounded like apologies and bowing deeply the instant his hands were free.

Momo chose that moment to turn around, groaning and palming her face.

“Okarun, what are you doing!” she hissed, storming over. “I’m trying to argue for you to stay here—”

“It’s fine.”

Momo stopped mid-stride.

“Huh?” She spun around, bewildered. “He can stay? Really?”

Arms folded, watching the boy out of the corner of her eye. He was still bowing, stammering apologies at a Rei who looked more confused than anything. That boy had just saved someone a nasty burn at best, and probably spared her a good deal of hassle to boot.

What’s the worst that could happen?

“But he’s gotta buy something every time,” she said, holding up a finger. “And if the cafe fills up, he’s gotta go so he isn’t taking up a table. Understand?”

She had to show she wasn’t a complete pushover, after all.

Never mind that the place was only ever half-full on weekday evening shifts.

Momo nodded eagerly, practically vibrating.

“And you can call dibs on serving him if you’re free,” she added, already regretting it. “As long as you don’t take advantage of it, okay?”

Because she really was a sap at heart.

“Of course not! Thank you!”

Momo practically skipped back over to the boy. She was about to call after her, remind her that she could serve him, not just chat, but he was already shyly pointing to something on the menu. Momo took his order with a curtsey and a devilish grin that had the poor boy turning scarlet, before she sauntered off, laughing.

A shake of the head.

Not her boyfriend. Right.

The boy became a common sight in the cafe after that.

Tucked away in that same booth, utterly unobtrusive, dutifully ordering at least one drink and one admittedly overpriced food item a night. He never complained about the prices. Never lingered too long after closing. Never caused a fuss.

It didn’t escape her notice that the booth the host stand led him to was usually right next to the kitchen, where the maids passed by constantly. Didn’t matter who was hosting that night, Rei, Ririna, Momo herself: somehow the boy always ended up in that same spot.

Not so subtle, her girls.

She made a point of knowing the names of all their regulars. It was good business, and even better security. So it wasn’t long before she learnt his.

Ken Takakura.

An eyebrow, raised. Momo’s love for the actor was hardly a secret. The girl had spent an entire break once explaining the appeal of old yakuza films to a bewildered Rei, complete with dramatic reenactments. So finding out her definitely-not-boyfriend shared a name with her favourite leading man was... something.

But who was she to judge what brought a pair together?

And despite her initial misgivings, Momo behaved. More than she’d expected, really. Less than she would have allowed, if she was being honest with herself. Not that she’d ever tell Momo that, of course.

It was the small things she noticed. The way Momo’s eyes would flick to his booth as she passed, a smile tugging at her lips. The way he’d look up from his notebooks just in time to catch her gaze, ears turning pink. A shared laugh as she refilled his tea, leaning in just a moment longer than strictly necessary before whisking away to another table.

Nothing obtrusive. Nothing that disrupted the floor. Just... warm.

One evening, she watched as Momo took over hosting duties.

The elevator chimed, and the boy walked in. Momo’s face lit up. She quickly schooled it into something more professional, a serene customer-service smile, but there was mischief dancing in her eyes.

“Welcome to Moe Moe Kikoho, Master,” she said, her voice pitched sweeter than usual. She dipped into an exaggerated curtsey, skirt swishing, one hand pressed delicately to her chest. “Allow me to show you to your seat.”

Takakura-kun was already turning red.

“I—um—thank you—”

Momo straightened, clasping her hands in front of her with exaggerated poise. “Right this way, Master.”

She led him to his usual booth with all the ceremony of a palace attendant escorting royalty, sweeping her arm toward the seat with a flourish before presenting the menu with both hands and a deep bow.

“Please take your time perusing our selection, Master. I will return shortly to take your order.”

“Y-you really don’t have to—”

“It is my pleasure to serve.”

She glided away, and the smirk she was suppressing was visible from across the room.

That girl knew exactly what she was doing.

It was rather funny, then, when the next customers through the elevator, a pair of young women, saw the whole performance and requested the same treatment.

Momo’s smile didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Resignation, maybe. Or karma.

Served her right.

Back to work, biting back a smile of her own.

The boy behaved himself too. There was none of the scowling at other customers she’d seen from boyfriends past, the possessive glares that had been the basis for the “no boyfriends” rule in the first place. When Momo was busy, he had no issues with the other girls serving him. He’d thank Rei with the same earnest politeness, chat awkwardly but gamely with Ririna when she stopped by to refill his tea.

He seemed to build up a genuine rapport with them, actually. She’d overheard Rei gushing about how he’d helped her carry boxes from the storage room. Ririna mentioned he’d given her advice on a homework problem she’d been stuck on for days.

A good kid.

The regulars had started to recognise him too. Not as a customer, exactly, but as a fixture. Part of the scenery. A few of the older women who came in on weekday evenings had taken to calling him “Momo-chan’s boy,” which never failed to make him sputter.

He’d correct them, flustered, and they’d just smile knowingly and pat him on the shoulder.

After a point, it was damn near every shift he’d show up, without fail. The food wasn’t cheap, customers were paying for the experience after all, but he ordered something every evening without complaint.

And it wasn’t like he was waiting for Momo like a lost puppy. He was always doing something productive. Homework, by the looks of it, head buried in notebooks and textbooks. Scribbling away with the kind of focus she wished more of her staff had. Sometimes he’d have an odd-looking magazine spread out instead, covers plastered with UFOs and blurry photographs of things that might have been monsters.

Kids had all sorts of hobbies these days.

But still. Every shift. Without fail. She’d assumed it was simply devotion. A boy who liked being close to his not-girlfriend and didn’t mind paying for the privilege. Sweet, if somewhat fiscally irresponsible.

She found out the full picture one evening, however, when she overheard Rei and Ririna gossiping as they wiped down tables at the end of the night.

She was behind the counter, tallying up the register, but sound carried in an empty cafe.

“Every single shift,” Rei was saying, shaking her head as she scrubbed at a stubborn stain. “He waits for her at the end every single time.”

Ririna had stopped wiping entirely, cloth clutched to her chest like she was hearing a confession of true love. “To walk her home. Every night. Rain or shine.”

“That’s so dedicated...”

“Right?” Ririna sighed dreamily. “I wish I had someone like that.”

Eyes on her clipboard.

Young love. Or young something, anyway. She remembered being that age, when a boy waiting outside felt like the most romantic thing in the world. Before you learnt that the ones who waited weren’t always the good ones.

But Takakura-kun... he did seem like one of the good ones. She hoped so, anyway.

“Do you think they’re—”

“Momo says they’re not.”

A pause. She could practically hear the sceptical look being exchanged.

“But every shift...”

“I know, right?”

At least she wasn’t the only one who wasn’t buying it.

The kitchen door swung open, and Momo emerged, pulling off her apron. Her eyes swept the cafe floor, taking in Rei and Ririna still at work.

“Oh, you’re still cleaning?” She was already moving toward them, folding her apron as she walked. “Here, let me help—”

Rei and Ririna exchanged a look. The kind of look that only girls that age could pull off. Equal parts mischief and plausible deniability.

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” Ririna said, waving her off with a grin that was just a touch too innocent. “We’re almost done.”

“You sure?” Momo asked, already reaching for a cloth. “It’s really no trouble.”

That girl never could leave a job half-done. It was one of the things that made her good.

Which made it all the more entertaining to watch Rei shoo her toward the door.

“Go on,” Rei said, barely suppressing a grin. “Don’t want to keep Takakura-kun waiting, do you?”

Momo turned pink. It started at her cheeks and spread to her ears.

“He’s not—I’m not—we’re not—”

Hands waving now, flustered in a way she rarely saw from her. On the floor these days, Momo was composed. Professional. The kind of unflappable calm that came in handy when a customer got too forward.

But mention that boy, and suddenly she was just a teenage girl.

“Goodnight, Momo!” they chimed in unison, twin grins on their faces.

Momo sputtered for a moment longer before bowing deeply, a rushed “thanks!” tumbling out as she grabbed her bag and fled toward the exit.

She paused at the door, glancing back.

A wave. “It’s fine, Momo. You’re on Fedora Guy next shift though, understand?”

Momo’s face flickered with barely concealed horror before she schooled it into a dutiful nod. “Got it! Thanks!”

And then she was gone.

She drifted toward the window, watching.

Takakura-kun was sitting on the bench outside, head tilted back, staring up at the sky with a far-away expression. The streetlight caught his glasses, and for a moment he looked almost wistful.

Then he startled, his whole face transforming into a wide, unguarded smile as Momo came rushing out. She didn’t slow down. Her hand reached for his without a second of hesitation, and he took it just as naturally, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

They headed down the street together. Momo shoulder-checked him, throwing her head back in a laugh. He rubbed the back of his head, shoulders shaking with what was probably a sheepish chuckle.

She turned away from the window.

She’d opened Moe Moe Kikoho because she believed in what a place like this could be. Not the sleazy image some people had in their heads, but something simpler. A place where someone could sit down after a long day and be attended to with warmth, with care. A small, silly fantasy, maybe. But a harmless one.

She wasn’t blind to the less pleasant sides. The looks some customers gave. The comments that skirted just close enough to the line. Girls in frilly uniforms, walking home alone at night. She knew the risks. She ran a tight ship inside these walls, but she couldn’t control what happened outside them. The best she could do was make sure all her girls had a plan for getting home safe.

When she’d asked Momo, the girl had just smiled. Something almost sly in it.

“It won’t be a problem,” she’d said. “I can take care of myself.”

There’d been a glint in her eye. Something bright and sharp. For a moment, just a trick of the light surely, her eyes had seemed to flash an almost teal colour.

A blink, and it was gone.

But the confidence remained. Something sure and steady in this teenage girl that she couldn’t quite name.

At the time, she’d taken Momo at her word. The girl had a presence about her. A quiet certainty that said she wasn’t someone to be messed with.

She still believed that. Nothing about Momo suggested a girl who needed protecting. If anything, some of the customers could have used protecting from her.

But now, watching them disappear down the street hand in hand, she thought it was nice to know Momo didn’t have to do it alone. That whatever steel she carried in her, she also had someone who’d be there at the end of every shift, waiting on a bench, ready to walk her home.

She smiled, turning away from the window.

She wouldn’t have thought a meek-seeming boy sitting outside could add anything to a girl who already had that kind of presence.

But hey. Appearances could be deceiving.

She spotted him the moment she stepped onto the floor.

His usual booth. Head bent over a notebook, pencil moving in careful, deliberate strokes.

A frown, a glance at the schedule pinned behind the counter. Momo wasn’t in today. She’d swapped shifts with Rei to spend time with her friends. And yet here he was, settled in like it was any other evening.

Maybe he’d gotten confused? It happened. Regulars sometimes lost track of who was working when, especially the ones who came in for a specific person.

She made her way over, weaving between tables.

“Momo isn’t in today,” she said, casual, as she approached.

He looked up, startled. Then his expression settled into something sheepish.

“Oh, I know. She’s out with Vamola doing—” He stopped abruptly, adjusting his glasses. “Um. I know she’s not here.”

An eyebrow, raised.

“You like our tea that much?”

His cheeks went pink, and he ducked his head.

“I... I like the atmosphere,” he said quietly, not quite meeting her eyes. “Everyone’s really nice here. And it’s a good place to study. The background noise helps. I don’t really like the quiet…”

He gestured vaguely at the cafe around them: the soft chatter, the clink of cups, the gentle background music. Then, quieter:

“And nobody bothers me about…” He trailed off, one hand drifting to the UFO magazine on the table before pulling back. “It’s comfortable.”

Huh.

She’d had regulars who came for the food, regulars who came for specific girls, regulars who came because they had nowhere else to go. But she didn’t get many who came just because they liked the vibe.

“Fair enough,” she said, and meant it.

Her eyes drifted down to the table, taking in the spread. A few notebooks, one of those UFO magazines he always seemed to have, a cup of tea that had gone cold.

And in the open notebook, a drawing.

She tilted her head, curiosity getting the better of her.

It was a spaceship. But not like anything she’d seen in films or manga. This was something else entirely. Intricate and strange, all sweeping curves and impossible angles, bristling with details she couldn’t begin to name. Smaller ships flanked it, each one equally detailed, hovering over what looked like a cityscape rendered in careful crosshatching.

It was good. Really good. The kind of detailed work that must have taken hours.

“This is impressive,” she said, genuinely surprised. “You drew this?”

He went even redder, one hand moving to cover the notebook like a reflex.

“It’s just a hobby. I like sci-fi stuff.”

“I can see that.” She nodded toward the magazine, its cover plastered with blurry photographs and dramatic headlines about extraterrestrial encounters. “You really into aliens, huh?”

“Something like that,” he mumbled, which was a non-answer if she’d ever heard one.

She waited, expecting him to leave it there. But after a moment, he glanced up at her, tentative, like he was testing whether she’d laugh.

“This part was the hardest.” He tapped the central ship with his pencil, almost shy about it. “The way the panels sit along the underside. I keep getting the angle wrong.”

“You’ve drawn this before?”

“A few times.” He flipped back a couple of pages. Earlier attempts, she could see, each one slightly different, slightly more refined. He’d been iterating. Working toward something specific, though she couldn’t imagine what. “I want to get it right. It’s important that it’s accurate.”

Accurate to what, she nearly asked. It was a made-up spaceship. What was there to be accurate to?

But he was frowning at the page now, tilting his head, comparing some detail against a picture only he could see. The focus was genuine. Whatever this was, it mattered to him.

“It’s dumb,” he said, catching himself. “Sorry.”

“Didn’t say it was dumb.”

He blinked up at her, surprised.

A shrug. “We’ve got a regular who comes in every Friday and tells Rei about his model train layout for forty minutes. At least yours is quiet.”

A small, startled laugh escaped him. It changed his whole face, made him look younger, less guarded.

She’d embarrassed the kid enough for one evening. She pulled out her notepad, something she wouldn’t normally do (taking orders was the maids’ job, after all) but it felt like the least she could do.

“So. What can I get you?”

He ordered the usual, tea and one of the overpriced parfaits, and she jotted it down, tallying the total in her head.

He blinked, reaching for his wallet, then paused.

“Um.” He looked up at her, hesitant. “Are you sure? That’s... less than usual.”

“Regulars’ discount,” she said, casual. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Regulars...?”

“You’re here practically every other day.” She tucked the notepad back into her apron. “At this point, you qualify.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at his wallet, then back up at her, like he was waiting for the catch.

“Oh,” he managed. “Um. Thank you? I really appreciate it...”

He said it like a question, bewildered, as if no one had ever just been nice to him for no reason and he wasn’t entirely sure how to handle it.

“Don’t mention it.”

Back at the counter, she shook her head.

She’d had him pegged wrong, she realised. She’d assumed he was just here for Momo, hovering, waiting, the kind of boy who couldn’t stand to let his girlfriend walk home alone for a single evening.

But apparently, he just liked the cafe.

Or maybe he was just a strange kid who drew alien spaceships in his spare time and found maid cafes relaxing.

Either way, she thought, watching him return to his sketching with a small, content smile, he’d earned his discount.

She ran into him again a few days later. Literally, almost, rounding the corner with a stack of menus just as he was coming through the door.

He caught the door with one hand and flattened himself against it to let her pass, the motion so immediate it was almost startling.

“Sorry! I’m sorry—”

“You’re fine, kid.” She righted the menus, waving him off. “Go sit down.”

He scurried to his booth, and she watched him settle in with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times. Bag down, textbook out, notebook positioned just so. He even knew which way the table wobbled and compensated without thinking, slipping a folded napkin under the short leg.

He’d been coming here longer than some of her staff at this point.

Ririna appeared at her elbow, following her gaze.

“You know, he’s really shy at school,” she said, leaning against the counter. “Like, barely talks to anyone. But he’s totally different here. He was chatting with Yui for ages the other day when she was on his table. Asking about her course and everything.”

That tracked, actually. She’d noticed it herself. The boy could barely string a sentence together when Momo was nearby, but with the other girls he was... not confident, exactly. But at ease. Like the cafe had become familiar enough that he could forget to be anxious for a while.

Funny, the things a place could do for a person.

“And he always busses his own table before he leaves. No one asked him to. He just does it.”

She looked at Ririna, who had the expression of someone building a case.

“I’m already giving him the discount, Ririna.”

“I know. I’m just saying.”

“What exactly are you ‘just saying’?”

Ririna put on her best innocent face, which was not very innocent at all. “Nothing! Just that he’s a really good customer. Who helps people. And busses his own table. And is here basically every day.” She ticked each point off on her fingers. “That’s all.”

She gave Ririna a flat look. Ririna beamed back, utterly unrepentant.

“Go check on table four.”

“Table four’s fine.”

“Go check anyway.”

She watched the girl head off to the floor, still grinning, and shook her head.

The boy had been here, what, two months now? Three? She’d stopped counting. At some point, he’d shifted from “Momo’s not-boyfriend” to just... part of the place.

Stranger things had happened.

Though usually not to her.

Goodbyes were part of the job.

She’d learnt that early on, running a place like Moe Moe Kikoho. The cafe attracted young people, students mostly, looking for flexible hours and decent pay. They came, they stayed for a semester or a year or two, and then they moved on. Graduated. Got full-time jobs. Relocated for university. It was the natural rhythm of things.

That didn’t make it any easier.

Yamamoto-kun had been with them for nearly two years now. Reliable, hardworking, never complained about the late shifts or the mountain of dishes that piled up after a busy evening. He’d handed in his notice that morning: a job offer from a restaurant closer to his new apartment, better hours, better pay. She couldn’t blame him. She’d smiled, wished him well, and meant it.

But now she was staring at the schedule and trying to figure out how to fill a back-of-house position with two weeks’ notice.

It was always harder to find kitchen staff for a maid cafe. Half the applicants assumed they’d have to wear the outfit and fled at the thought. The other half were disappointed when they found out they wouldn’t get to wear it, which was somehow worse.

A sigh, and she set down her pen.

A problem for tomorrow. For now, she had a floor to check.

Out from behind the counter, scanning the cafe with a practised eye. The evening crowd was light: a few regulars, a couple on what looked like a first date, a group of university students taking up the corner booth with textbooks spread everywhere.

And there, in his usual spot, was Momo’s definitely-not-boyfriend.

Except… something was wrong.

He wasn’t hunched over his homework like usual. His head was down on the table, pillowed on his crossed arms, textbook forgotten beside him. From here, she couldn’t tell if he was resting his eyes or fully unconscious.

She frowned, moving closer.

Momo was already approaching his booth, tray in hand. But instead of the usual bright greeting, she stopped short, her expression shifting to something softer. More worried.

Haruki ducked around the corner, busying herself with the cutlery station. Rolling silverware into napkins. A perfectly normal task that just happened to give her a clear line of sight.

She wasn’t eavesdropping. She was supervising.

“Okarun,” Momo said gently, nudging his shoulder. “You’ve fallen asleep again.”

He mumbled something she couldn’t make out, face still pressed into his arms.

Then he jerked upright so fast his glasses went askew, nearly flying off his face entirely.

“I’m sorry!” he said, far too loudly. Several patrons glanced over. He immediately hunched down, hands flying up to cover his head like he was bracing for impact.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, barely above a whisper this time. He straightened his glasses with shaking hands, glancing around the cafe like he was cataloguing every witness. Then his eyes landed on Momo, and the panic shifted into something else. Concern.

“You won’t get in trouble, will you?”

The eye-roll in Momo’s voice was practically audible as she set down the teacup.

“You’re fine, dude.” She lifted the teapot, and her voice shifted into something flat and droll. “Make it nice and tasty... make it nice and tasty...”

She poured as she chanted, the stream of tea utterly untheatrical. No dramatic arc. No flourish. Just tea going into a cup while Momo recited the words like she was reading a shopping list.

A bitten-back smile. She’d seen Momo do the ritual properly, all enthusiasm and sparkle, enough to make even the most jaded customer crack a grin. This was... not that.

The boy seemed to notice too. He leant back in the booth, folded his arms, and pushed his glasses up.

“It’s not working,” he said drily. “I can’t feel the love at all.”

Momo’s eye twitched.

“Make it nice and tasty!” She poured more aggressively now, the stream of tea hitting the cup with considerably more force. “MAKE IT NICE AND TASTY—”

“Okay, okay! It’s working!” He was grinning now, hands up in surrender. “I can feel the lo—”

He went pink. The grin froze.

“—the. The enthusiasm. I can feel the enthusiasm!”

The tea was dangerously close to overflowing. Momo stopped just in time. She was very still, the teapot hovering, and if her cheeks were a shade darker than usual it was probably just the exertion.

She shot him a look that promised retribution.

But she was smiling too, just a little. She set the teapot down, and her voice dropped, the playfulness fading.

“But seriously. Are you okay? You’ve been so tired lately...”

His smile faltered, hand returning to his glasses. “Ah… I’ve had a lot of shifts recently...”

“And you’re always exhausted the next day!” Momo’s voice rose, then dropped again as she remembered where they were. “Just quit, dude!”

“I can’t.” He looked away, shoulders hunching. “I can’t keep relying on Seiko-san’s goodwill. And I wanna buy... more weights and stuff. I need this job…”

Momo’s expression darkened.

“The least that old bat can do is pay for your uniforms,” she grumbled, shoulders slumping. “It’s not our fault we need more after all.”

A pause mid-roll. School uniforms? How many uniforms could two teenagers go through in a few months? What were they doing to them?

She decided she probably didn’t want to know.

“Does it have to be that job, though?” Momo continued, frowning. “Getting up in the middle of the night can’t be good for you. Maybe you could find something else.”

He picked at the edge of his notebook, not meeting her eyes.

“I know, but there’s not that many jobs available...”

“You could ask Rokuro, maybe? Or look at restaurants, or—”

“I can’t do something with customers, Ayase-san.” His voice dropped even further, something small and self-deprecating creeping in. He pushed his glasses up again, the reflection rendering them opaque. “I’m too much of an awkward guy...”

Momo went very still. Her cheeks flushed, and then her expression snapped into something almost offended.

“I told you not to say that!” she hissed, swatting his arm.

“Ow! Say what?!”

“That! The—the awkward guy thing! I told you to stop saying that!”

He looked utterly baffled, rubbing his arm. “It’s just the truth—”

“It is NOT the truth, and you KNOW I can’t handle it when you—” She caught herself, going even redder. Her mouth opened and closed once. Then she turned sharply away, busying herself with the teacup. “Just. Don’t say it.”

He stared at her back, confused. Then, slowly, the tips of his ears went pink, as if whatever connection she’d made had finally reached him on a delay.

“...Sorry.”

“You’d better be,” she muttered, still not looking at him.

From the cutlery station, she watched this exchange with absolutely no idea what had just happened. They both sat in uncomfortable silence for a bit, before Momo sighed.

“I get it. But promise me you’ll still look for something else, okay? This can’t be good for you. You’re always so tired...”

“I’ll do my best,” he said, and it sounded more like a lament than a promise.

She finished rolling the last of the cutlery, her mind already turning.

Awkward. Preferred no customer interaction. Free in the evenings. Already here most nights anyway.

She had a position to fill. And a boy who needed a job.

Funny how things worked out sometimes.

She could mention it to Momo later. Drop it casually: oh, by the way, we’re looking for someone to replace Yamamoto-kun, know anyone? Let it happen naturally.

But somehow, she thought the direct approach would work better with this one.

She set down the last rolled napkin and made her way over to the booth.

Takakura-kun spotted her coming before Momo did. His eyes went wide behind his glasses, and he straightened up so fast he nearly sent his drink off the edge of the table.

“I’m sorry!” he blurted out, already half-rising in preparation to bow. “I promise I won’t fall asleep again! Please don’t—Ayase-san didn’t do anything wrong, it was entirely my—”

“Relax, kid.” A hand held up. “You’re not in trouble.”

He froze mid-bow. “I’m... not?”

“Nope.”

Momo was watching the exchange with barely concealed anxiety, tray clutched to her chest like a shield.

She let the silence stretch for a beat, just long enough to watch them both squirm.

“How would you feel about a job?”

The boy’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

His eyes darted to Momo, a quick, panicked glance, and then back. Confusion written all over his face.

Momo, for her part, looked like she was about to vibrate out of her skin. She’d clearly put it together faster than he had, her eyes already bright, mouth pressing into a line that was trying very hard not to be a grin.

The boy, meanwhile, was still stuck on the word “job.” She could practically see the gears turning behind his glasses. A job. Here. Where the staff wore maid outfits. Where he would have to—

Kids. Honestly.

Though she couldn’t help casting an appraising eye over him as he sat there, flustered and stammering. Good bone structure. Nice eyes behind those glasses. Polite, earnest, the kind of awkward that certain customers found endearing.

He’d probably be quite popular, actually, if he ever worked the floor.

A shame he didn’t want to interact with customers.

“Yamamoto-kun is leaving at the end of the month,” she clarified, taking pity on him. “We’re short a back-of-house staff. No customer interaction. Mostly washing dishes, some food prep, cleaning up after closing.”

The boy’s panic drained so fast it was almost comical. Momo didn’t bother hiding her grin anymore.

“Oh,” he said, voice small with relief. “Oh.”

A small smirk. “Sorry to disappoint, but you won’t get to wear the maid outfit. Back-of-house is just a shirt and black trousers.”

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze, adjusting his glasses with trembling fingers. “That’s—that’s completely fine—”

“It’s perfect!” Momo burst out, practically bouncing on her heels. “And we’d get to work together!”

A look.

Momo’s excitement dimmed slightly, a flush creeping back up her cheeks. “I mean, it would be convenient. For walking home. Since he’s already here anyway.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s practical!”

“I’m sure.”

The boy was looking between them, still processing. His hands fidgeted in his lap, twisting together nervously.

“I... I don’t have any experience,” he said quietly, glancing up with something like hope and fear warring in his expression. “With cooking, or any of it, really. Would it actually be okay?”

She waved him off. “You’re a good kid. You’re polite, you’re helpful, and you don’t cause trouble.” A pause, then drily: “Well. Mostly.”

His ears went pink.

“We’ll train you up. It’s not complicated. If you can handle homework while surrounded by maids, you can handle a dish pit.”

He was quiet for a moment, staring down at his hands.

Then he looked up, something determined settling in his expression.

“Yes, please! I’ll take it,” he said. “I’ll work hard. I promise.”

“Good.” She nodded, already turning to head back to the counter. “Come in tomorrow at four. We’ll get you sorted with the paperwork and training.”

“Yes ma’am! Thank you!”

She could hear Momo’s excited whisper as she walked away: “Okarun, this is amazing!” And his flustered response: “Ayase-san, not so loud—”

A shake of the head, smiling to herself.

She was already bending the no-boyfriends-during-shifts rule for him. Bending the no-dating-colleagues rule was basically the same thing at this point.

What was one more exception?

Takakura-kun, it turned out, was an excellent employee.

She hadn’t been entirely sure what to expect. He was clearly hardworking, but plenty of people were hardworking in interviews and fell apart once the reality of the job set in. Dishes piled high. Floors that needed mopping close to midnight. The unglamorous side of running a cafe that most customers never saw.

But he took to it like he’d been born for it.

He never complained. Not about the late nights, not about the mountain of dishes after a busy evening, not about scrubbing the grease trap or hauling rubbish bags that should have been too heavy for a boy his size but somehow weren’t. She’d watched him heft a full stock delivery one-handed while holding the door open with the other, and had to quietly reassess whatever assumptions she’d been making about the scrawny kid in glasses.

And he was quick. Unsettlingly so, sometimes. She’d see a glass start to slide off the counter and open her mouth to warn him, only to find it was already in his hand, caught without looking, his attention apparently still on the dishes. Once, Rei knocked a whole tray of clean cups off the drying rack, and by the time the crash should have happened, Takakura-kun was somehow on the other side of the kitchen, tray in hand, every cup accounted for. She hadn’t even seen him move.

Good reflexes. Some people just had them.

He wasn’t without his faults. Catch him off guard, a sudden question from the doorway, an unexpected request, and he’d revert straight back to stammering and bowing and apologising for things that weren’t his fault. He broke two mugs in his first week, both times because someone startled him. And getting him to take his breaks required the kind of firm insistence she usually saved for customers who’d overstayed their welcome.

But the good far outweighed the bad. The other maids warmed to him quickly. When Ririna struggled with a heavy delivery, he appeared at her elbow to take it. When one of the newer girls couldn’t find the spare napkins, he’d already fetched them. Small things, but they added up.

“He’s like a machine,” Rei said one evening, watching him efficiently work through a stack of plates. “A very polite machine that apologises every time you thank him.”

Within a few weeks, he’d become something of a fixture. Part of the cafe’s rhythm in a way that felt natural, like he’d always been there.

And then there was the other thing.

She witnessed it herself, one slow Tuesday evening.

A customer at table six had been getting progressively louder over the course of the night. Too many drinks from the bar down the street before wandering in, probably. He’d started making comments, nothing outright bannable, but skirting the line. The kind of remarks that made Rei’s smile go fixed and plastic.

She was about to step in herself when she saw Rei dart toward the kitchen.

A moment later, Takakura-kun emerged.

He wasn’t particularly tall. Wasn’t particularly imposing. Just a teenage boy in a plain polo shirt, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.

But something in his expression made the customer pause.

He didn’t say anything threatening. Didn’t raise his voice. Just walked over, stood beside Rei, and asked, perfectly politely, if everything was alright. If there was anything he could help with.

The customer looked at him. Looked at the quiet certainty in his eyes, the set of his shoulders.

For a moment, the overhead light caught his face at an odd angle, and she could have sworn his eyes looked almost red. The shadows around the booth seemed to deepen, just slightly, as if the room had drawn a breath and held it.

Then the customer mumbled something about getting the bill and reached for his coat.

She blinked. The lighting was normal. Takakura-kun was smiling politely, holding the door open as the man left.

“How did you do that?” Rei asked afterwards, bewildered.

“Do what?” Takakura-kun replied, looking genuinely confused.

She didn’t know how he did it either. But word spread among the staff. After that, whenever a customer got too rowdy, too forward, too much, one of the girls would slip into the kitchen, and Takakura-kun would appear.

It never escalated. Somehow, it never needed to.

Strange kid.

When Momo started, her friends had come to visit with Takakura-kun in tow. It didn’t usually happen with back-of-house staff, but she supposed it wasn’t too surprising that when he started, he also had some friends show up to support him.

She noticed the pink hair first. Hard not to, really; that shade of bubblegum wasn’t exactly subtle. The girl walked in like she owned the place, sharp eyes sweeping the room with an appraising look that reminded her uncomfortably of a health inspector.

The boy behind her was tall, taller than Takakura-kun by a good margin, with red-orange hair that stuck up in unruly spikes. Athletic-looking, the kind of build that suggested he played something competitive. He was glancing around the cafe with open curiosity, taking in the decor, the maids, the frilly everything, with the wide-eyed interest of someone visiting a foreign country for the first time.

Then he spotted Momo across the room and his whole face lit up.

“Momo!” He was waving both arms over his head before he’d even finished saying her name, the kind of full-body enthusiasm that made several patrons flinch. “Yo! We’re here!”

Momo appeared from behind a table, tray in hand, looking like she’d just watched someone walk into a glass door. “Jiji, what are you—keep your voice down, this is my workplace!”

“Right, right, sorry—” He dropped into a stage whisper that was somehow louder than his normal voice, hands cupped around his mouth for absolutely no reason. “We’re here!”

“I can see that.” Momo’s eyes flicked to the pink-haired girl, who had already claimed a booth and was sitting down with the air of someone settling in for a show. Her scowl deepened. “But why?”

The pink-haired girl propped her chin on her hand and glanced toward the kitchen, ignoring the question entirely.

“Is Takakura-san working today?” she asked, with studied casualness.

“He’s in the back,” Momo said, narrowing her eyes. “Which you already knew, because he told you at school. Why?”

“No reason. I’ve just heard his cooking here is really good—”

A scoff from Momo. “It’s all microwaved, Aira. Okarun doing it doesn’t change that.”

“Don’t ruin my fantasy.” The girl, Aira, waved a dismissive hand. “Besides, even microwaved food tastes better when someone puts a little heart into it. And he puts his whole heart into everything.” A pause, just long enough to be deliberate. “Just because you can’t tell the difference—”

Momo’s eye twitched. “And what exactly does that mean, skank—”

“I think you can guess.”

A bitten-back smile from behind the counter.

The red-haired boy, Jiji, had gotten up from his seat, eyes fixed on the kitchen door.

“Hey, Okarun!” he called, already moving. “What’s up, man! I heard you were—”

Momo’s hand shot out and grabbed the back of his collar with a grip that stopped him mid-stride. She hauled him back toward the booth with the kind of effortless strength that always caught her slightly off guard.

“No harassing the staff,” Momo said flatly, not letting go.

“I wasn’t harassing! I was greeting—ow, ow, okay—”

She deposited him in his seat with a firm hand, ignoring his protests. Aira was already berating him for trying to disturb “her precious Takakura-san,” which only made Momo’s scowl deepen.

They stayed for an hour. They were loud, louder than she’d normally allow, but it was the kind of loud that came from genuine affection, the rowdy warmth of friends who’d been through something together. Jiji kept trying to sneak into the back to see his “best buddy,” and Takakura-kun did eventually poke his head out to say hello, which had both of them lighting up like it was Christmas morning. Aira, or “Skank” as Momo seemed to prefer, complimented the food and the cleanliness of the dinnerware with surprising fervour, while mercilessly critiquing Momo’s tea pouring, which was, to her eye, perfectly fine.

Through the serving window, she caught Takakura-kun grinning as he worked, and saw him slide an extra portion of egg onto Jiji’s plate when he thought no one was looking.

Odd group. Clearly close, in the way that only people with shared history could be.

She wondered what that history was. What could possibly connect a haughty girly-girl with bubblegum hair and opinions about everything, an obvious athlete who couldn’t sit still for five minutes, a girl with a sharp tongue and sharper presence, and a quiet kid who drew alien spaceships in his spare time.

She suspected she’d never find out.

The pair kept to the unsaid agreement to keep their relationship on the down low. But the signs were there, if you knew where to look.

She noticed the way Momo found excuses to pass by the kitchen. Returning dishes that could have waited. Fetching supplies that were already stocked. Checking on things that didn’t need checking.

“Just making sure we’re not running low on napkins,” Momo said, for the third time that shift.

“We have three full boxes,” Rei pointed out.

“Can never be too careful.”

She noticed the way their breaks mysteriously aligned. How they’d end up in the back corner of the kitchen, sharing food from the same container. How Takakura-kun always seemed to push the larger portion toward her without being asked.

And she noticed the drinks.

The menu had a standard yogurt milkshake: strawberry, decent enough, reasonably popular. But whenever Momo ordered one on her break, what arrived was... different. A little thicker. A little more sour. Topped with what looked like extra fruit and a drizzle of honey.

“Did you customise this?” Momo asked one evening, examining the drink with a critical eye.

Takakura-kun, hovering near the kitchen door, went pink. “You mentioned once that you liked Pampi, so I thought — I just adjusted the yogurt ratio a bit, and added some — it’s not a big deal—”

“It’s good.” Momo took a sip, and something soft flickered across her face. “Really good.”

He looked like she’d just handed him the moon.

She let that one go. It was sweet, and it wasn’t hurting anyone, and if a boy wanted to quietly learn his not-quite-girlfriend’s favourite drink and recreate it from a cafe milkshake, well. There were worse things.

Another evening, she walked into the back to find them both reaching for the same tray of clean cups. Their hands brushed. They froze.

“Sorry—”

“No, I—”

“You first—”

“It’s fine, I’ll just—”

They both stepped back at the same time, then both stepped forward, nearly colliding. Momo grabbed his arm to steady herself, and suddenly they were very close, and both very red, and neither of them seemed to know what to do about it.

“I’ll just... get different cups,” Takakura-kun managed, voice strangled.

“Good idea,” Momo agreed, not letting go of his arm.

A cleared throat from the doorway.

They sprang apart. Momo suddenly found something fascinating about the ceiling. Takakura-kun grabbed the nearest cloth and began wiping down a counter that was already spotless.

She said nothing. Just gave them both a look, the kind that said I see you, and moved on.

They were keeping to the agreement, after all. More or less. She could hardly fault them for the occasional slip when they thought no one was watching.

The other staff had their own theories, of course. She’d overheard the betting pool: not about whether those two were together, but about when they’d finally stop pretending they weren’t.

She kept her own counsel on that one. As far as she was concerned, they were handling it well. Discreet. Professional. The odd lingering look, the occasional brush of hands, but nothing that disrupted the floor.

She was rather proud of them, actually.

Though she did wish they’d be a bit more careful with each other.

They came in banged up sometimes. Nothing alarming, but noticeable if you were paying attention. A plaster on Takakura-kun’s cheek one evening. Momo favouring her left side for a shift, moving a touch more carefully than usual. Once, they’d both shown up with matching scrapes on their forearms, and she’d had to bite her tongue.

She’d seen them in the corridor often enough. The playful shoving, the ineffectual punches, the kind of roughhousing that passed for affection between teenagers who didn’t have all the words yet. She assumed they just got a bit carried away sometimes.

Still. They could try to be a little more subtle, couldn’t they?

He’d been working at the cafe for around a month when she heard something unexpected from the kitchen.

Takakura-kun’s voice. Firm. Exasperated.

“Ayase-san, you have to scrape the food off first. I’ve told you three times now.”

She paused, peeking through the serving window.

Momo stood at the dish return, a stack of plates in her arms, looking distinctly guilty. Takakura-kun had his hands on his hips, an oddly authoritative pose for someone who usually couldn’t make eye contact for more than three seconds.

“If it dries on, it takes twice as long to clean,” he continued, gesturing at the offending plates. “And then everything backs up, and—”

“Alright, alright.” Momo held up a hand in surrender, a grin tugging at her lips. She snapped a salute. “Yes, chef. Won’t happen again, chef.”

He deflated immediately, the assertiveness crumbling into his usual flustered stammering.

“I’m not a chef, I just—you don’t have to—”

Momo was already laughing, scraping the plates properly before depositing them by the sink. She patted him on the shoulder as she passed, and his ears went pink.

Interesting. The boy had a backbone after all. It just only came out when dishes were involved.

She kept an eye on him after that.

It wasn’t just the dishes, she realised. He’d found his rhythm in the kitchen, and with it, a quiet confidence that was growing shift by shift. Not the loud, showy kind. Just a steadiness in the way he moved, the way he anticipated what needed doing before anyone asked.

The suggestions started not long after.

The first one happened by accident. A customer had come in looking miserable: slumped shoulders, red-rimmed eyes, the kind of expression that said the day had been unkind. She’d ordered a slice of cake, and when it arrived, there was something drawn on the plate in chocolate sauce.

A small cat face. Two dots for eyes, a triangle nose, whiskers curling outward.

The customer had stared at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, she’d smiled.

She tracked down the source easily enough.

“It just... she looked sad,” Takakura-kun said, not quite meeting her eyes. “I thought maybe... sorry, I should have asked first—”

“Do it again,” she said.

He blinked. “What?”

“For other customers. If you want.” A shrug. “It’s a nice touch.”

His face lit up like she’d given him a gift.

After that, the plates started arriving with little decorations. Nothing fancy; the desserts still came frozen and just got thawed. But a few strokes of sauce transformed them. Cat faces. Flowers. Customer names in careful script, if they mentioned a birthday. That skill with a pencil she’d seen in his spaceship drawings translated surprisingly well to a squeeze bottle.

The omurice was where he really came alive, though.

It was a maid cafe staple: the ketchup decoration on top, usually a heart or a simple message. She’d seen it at other places, but they’d never bothered with it at Moe Moe Kikoho. None of the previous kitchen staff had shown any interest, and she’d never pushed it. It was a gimmick, not a necessity.

But Takakura-kun took to it unprompted, and his versions were something else. More detailed than anything she’d seen elsewhere. Little characters and faces, animals and stars, the kind of careful linework that went well beyond a standard heart and “thank you.”

She caught him one evening, hunched over a plate with a squeeze bottle, tongue poking out slightly as he traced a miniature rabbit across the surface of the egg. He worked with the same quiet focus she’d seen with his drawings. Total absorption, the rest of the world falling away.

The customers noticed. One posted a photo online; she saw the notification pop up on the cafe’s tagged posts. Then more people started requesting specific designs. A dog for a birthday. A heart with initials. A dancing cat, for some reason, which became oddly popular.

He obliged every one, never complaining, adjusting his technique as he went. The early attempts were charming but rough. By the third week, they were genuinely impressive.

The girls started jockeying over who got to deliver the decorated plates.

“Customers always love it when they get one of his,” Rei confided, cradling a plate with a particularly detailed cherry blossom design. “The reactions are so much better.”

“I can barely manage a smiley face,” Ririna said, looking at the plate with something close to envy.

“Right?! I tried to do a heart the other day and it looked like a blob. It’s not fair!”

Momo, naturally, took full advantage.

“I want a Flatwoods Monster,” she announced one break, sliding her plate across the kitchen counter toward him.

Takakura-kun didn’t even blink. “The sumo variant or the traditional American version?”

“Surprise me.”

He did. It was disturbingly detailed for something rendered in ketchup.

The requests escalated from there. Aliens. Yokai. Cryptids she’d never heard of and suspected Momo was making up just to see if he could do them.

He always could.

“That’s a Kuchisake-onna,” Rei said one evening, peering at the plate Momo had carried out of the kitchen with a mix of horror and fascination. “Why is there a Kuchisake-onna on your eggs?”

Momo just grinned, snapping a photo before digging in.

One afternoon, slow shift, only a handful of customers, she was passing through the kitchen when she caught them mid-conversation. Momo was leaning against the counter, plate in hand, saying something about the ketchup Mothman being his best work yet. Takakura-kun was laughing, shaking his head, still holding the squeeze bottle.

And then Momo reached over and swiped her finger through the ketchup design, popping it in her mouth before he could react.

“Ayase-san!” He stared at the plate, aghast. The Mothman now had a conspicuous streak through its midsection. “I wasn’t finished!”

“Tastes good, though.” She was already backing toward the kitchen door, grinning. “Maybe your best work.”

“You ruined it! That was—the wing was—Ayase-san!”

The door swung shut. Her cackling carried through the door.

He looked down at the defaced Mothman. Looked at the door. Looked at the Mothman again.

Then he picked up the squeeze bottle and started fixing the wing, a helpless smile spreading across his face despite his best efforts to look indignant.

A note on her clipboard, a shake of her head.

He’d come a long way from the nervous boy who couldn’t look anyone in the eye. The kitchen had done that. Given him a space that was his, small, maybe, and unglamorous, but his. A place where he could be quietly good at something, and know it, and let that knowing settle into his shoulders and straighten his spine.

She was glad she’d offered him the job.

Even if it did mean watching him and Momo be sickeningly sweet in increasingly obvious ways.

The giggles, for one.

She was in the kitchen doing a stock check when Momo backed through the swinging door, a stack of dishes in her arms.

“Table five’s finished,” Momo said.

Takakura-kun looked up from the sink.

“Oh! Here, I’ve got it.” He was already reaching over, lifting the stack from her arms with that earnest smile of his.

She would have thought he was being sweet on his girl, if it weren’t for the fact that he gave that same eager-to-help attitude to all the maids. Rei had nearly cried the first time he’d offered to carry the heavy stock boxes for her. Even the older girls had warmed to him.

Just a genuinely helpful kid, it seemed. They did still make those, apparently.

Momo should have headed back out to the floor. But she lingered.

She leant in close, one hand cupping her mouth, whispering something. Takakura-kun’s brow furrowed. He set the dishes down, wiped his hands on his apron, and crossed to the door. He cracked it open just a sliver to peer out at the floor.

He ducked back in, the door swinging shut behind him.

The two of them locked eyes.

And then they absolutely lost it, dissolving into giggles like a pair of middle schoolers. Momo had to brace herself against the counter, shoulders shaking. Takakura-kun pulled his apron up over his face, making a sound somewhere between a wheeze and a snort.

She had no idea what was so funny.

She'd glanced at the floor herself not ten minutes ago. A few regulars. A couple sharing a parfait. A man with a somewhat large head and odd hairstyle who was taking a while to read the menu.

Nothing worth this reaction, surely?

Momo said something too quiet to fully catch. She thought she heard "Serpo" and "disguise" but that couldn't be right. Takakura-kun lost it all over again, bracing one hand on the counter.

"He does," he wheezed, waving the other hand like he was begging her to stop. "He really does—"

She let them have it for another few seconds. Then she tapped her pen against the clipboard. Twice. Loud enough to carry.

They both froze.

Momo straightened up so fast she nearly knocked over the dish stack. Takakura-kun grabbed the nearest cloth and started wiping something that didn't need wiping.

"The dishes, Takakura-kun."

"Y-yes ma'am! Sorry!"

She turned to Momo, one eyebrow doing all the work. "And I believe table three has been waiting on their parfait for a while now."

They hadn't. But watching Momo's eyes go wide before she fled back through the door, still fighting giggles, was worth it.

Back to her clipboard.

Behind her, the clatter of dishes and the occasional muffled snort. One of them clearly still hadn't gotten it out of their system.

Kids these days.

As long as the dishes got done, she didn't want to know.

A few more weeks passed, the cafe running smoother than it had in months, when it became obvious that something was wrong.

She knew it the moment Takakura-kun approached her before his shift. He wasn't fidgeting with his glasses in the usual way, the absent-minded adjustment between tasks. This was different. He was gripping them like an anchor, pushing them up, taking them off, putting them back on. His jaw was set, but his eyes were somewhere else entirely.

"Um. Manager?"

She looked up from the schedule. "What is it?"

He took a breath. Then another. He opened his mouth, closed it, and for a moment she thought he might not be able to get the words out at all.

"Ayase-san is... sick," he said finally, and there was something heavy in the way he said it. Not the casual tone of someone calling in with a cold. Something deeper. "She won't be able to come in for a while. We're not sure how long."

A frown. "Is she alright? What happened?"

"She's..." He trailed off, staring at a point somewhere past her shoulder. His hands had gone still at his sides, which was almost worse than the fidgeting. "She'll be okay. We hope. But it might be a few weeks."

A few weeks. That was a long time to be sick. And the way he said it, we hope, sent a chill down her spine.

He looked exhausted, she realised. Not the usual post-shift tired she'd grown used to, but something bone-deep. Dark circles under his eyes. Shoulders carrying a weight that had nothing to do with rubbish bags or stock deliveries.

"Our friend Vamola offered to fill in for her shifts," he continued, voice carefully steady. "She's a hard worker. If you could please... hold Ayase-san's position for her?"

He bowed, low and formal, and didn't straighten up until she told him to.

"Of course," she said. "Tell Momo her job will be here when she's better."

Something flickered across his face, relief, maybe, or gratitude, before it settled back into that heavy, tired expression.

Then he flinched. A quick, sharp jerk of the head, as if something had flicked his ear. He blinked, momentarily thrown, before seeming to remember himself.

"Oh — and I'll make sure Vamola gets up to speed quickly. It's her first job, but she's a fast learner. I'll look after her."

She watched him head toward the kitchen, rubbing his ear absently.

"Thank you," he said over his shoulder, quietly. "Really."

Vamola was a good worker, as promised.

Her Japanese was a bit spotty. She'd slip into English sometimes, or use phrases that didn't quite fit, and her grasp of the more theatrical elements of the maid routine was, charitably, a work in progress. She also had a pair of thin, bobbing antenna-like hair accessories that she refused to take off, and eyes that seemed to genuinely sparkle, some kind of cosmetic contact lens that caught the light in a way that made her look perpetually starstruck. It was probably some new fashion trend she hadn't caught up with. Whatever it was, the customers found it adorable, and it suited the maid aesthetic better than anything she could have planned.

But what Vamola lacked in polish she made up for in sheer force of personality. She threw herself into every task with almost alarming energy, grinning and laughing and charming everyone in range.

And Takakura-kun, true to his word, looked after her.

She watched him walk Vamola through the table layout on her first evening, pointing out which booths wobbled, where the spare menus were kept, how the kitchen door stuck if you didn't hip-check it on the way through. Patient and thorough, even though his voice was flat and his eyes kept drifting to the empty locker where Momo's apron usually hung.

He'd made a cheat sheet, she noticed. A handwritten list of the menu items, the greeting script, the tea ritual steps, pinned up by the kitchen door in neat, careful handwriting. Vamola consulted it constantly for the first few days, mouthing the words to herself before bouncing out to the floor.

It was a kind thing to do. It was also, she suspected, the kind of project someone threw themselves into when they didn't want to think about something else.

The regulars loved Vamola quickly enough. The staff warmed to her even faster. Even the grumpier patrons couldn't help but smile when she beamed at them with that thousand-watt grin.

But Takakura-kun...

She watched him through the serving window, scrubbing dishes with mechanical efficiency. His movements were the same as always: thorough, careful, practised. But there was no humming anymore. No quiet focus. No little designs on the dessert plates unless someone specifically requested one. Just silence, and a heaviness in his shoulders that hadn't lifted in days.

He missed her. That much was obvious.

Rei tried asking, one evening during cleanup. She'd meant well, her voice gentle, careful.

"Is Momo okay? Do you know when she'll be back?"

Takakura-kun's hands had stilled on the plate he was drying. Just for a second. Then he'd smiled, the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes, and said something about it being hard to say, and that she was resting, and that she'd be back as soon as she could.

He'd changed the subject to the stock order after that. Rei hadn't pushed it.

Nobody did, after that first attempt. There was something in his expression when Momo came up, a careful blankness that was worse than any visible distress, that made people instinctively back off.

What kind of illness kept someone away for weeks without even a diagnosis? Without anyone saying what it was?

It must be bad.

Her heart ached for him. Still showing up for every shift. Still doing his job. Still making sure Vamola had everything she needed, still carrying the stock boxes, still scrubbing the grease trap without complaint. Holding the whole back of house together while the girl he—

Well. While Momo was sick.

Vamola had been filling in for about a week when the cafe got its most dramatic entrance since Momo's friends had dragged Takakura-kun through the elevator doors all those months ago.

The cafe door slammed open with enough force to rattle the little bell clean off its hook.

She looked up sharply, already reaching for her phone.

A boy stood in the doorway. Stocky, broad-shouldered, in a gakuran like Takakura-kun's but straining at the buttons where his didn't. Dark hair, thick-framed glasses. His school bag was slung over one shoulder like a piece of military equipment, and his feet were planted wide in a stance that suggested he was about to address a battalion.

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger. A slow, deliberate motion, full of calculated drama.

"Heh."

Oh no.

"I'm here," he announced, to no one in particular, "to provide backup support to my subordinates while one of our heavy hitters is incapacitated."

Several customers looked up from their drinks. Rei froze mid-curtsey, tray wobbling in her hands.

The boy took a single step into the cafe, finger still on his glasses, chin tilted up at a heroic angle—

And then his head snapped violently to the left, as if something had clipped him across the face.

He stumbled, catching himself on the door frame. His glasses went askew. For a split second, his composure cracked, and she caught a flicker of genuine surprise before he straightened up, adjusted his glasses again, and cleared his throat.

"...As I was saying."

He strode in as if nothing had happened.

She stared.

She turned to Takakura-kun, who had poked his head out of the kitchen at the commotion. He looked oddly unsurprised. More exasperated than anything. Though it was better than the melancholy.

"Sakata..." he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Ah. So this was one of theirs. Sakata. She filed the name away.

She observed the boy, Sakata-kun, as he claimed a table with all the ceremony of a general establishing a forward command post. He sat with his arms crossed, spine straight, surveying the cafe floor like he was assessing tactical positions.

A chuunibyou. She'd seen the type before. The dramatic posturing, the military vocabulary, the glasses-push-and-smirk. She'd had a few come through as customers over the years, boys who lived half in the real world and half in some epic narrative only they could see.

She didn't mind them, honestly. There was something almost charming about the commitment to the bit. And it wasn't so different from the cafe itself, when she thought about it. Everyone here was playing a role: the maids, the customers, even her. A little theatre to make the day more bearable.

At least his was enthusiastic.

What she found more interesting was what happened when Vamola bounced over to take his order.

She'd been watching Vamola all week. The girl was a natural. Enthusiastic, warm, the kind of person who made you feel like your order was the most important thing that had happened to her all day. She beamed at every customer like they'd made her whole week just by walking through the door.

She turned that beam on Sakata-kun now, full force.

"Welcome to Moe Moe Kikoho, Master!" Vamola chirped, dipping into a bright curtsey, skirt swishing. The Japanese was a little off, the emphasis landing in odd places, but the warmth behind it was unmistakable. "I'm so happy to see you! Can I get you something yummy?"

The transformation was instantaneous.

All the bluster drained out of him like air from a punctured balloon. His arms uncrossed. His heroic posture collapsed. His face, which moments ago had been set in an expression of steely determination, turned a shade of pink that clashed violently with his uniform.

"I—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, pushing his glasses up with a hand that she could see trembling slightly from across the room. "That is—a strategic—a tactically sound beverage would be—"

He was spiralling. His eyes kept darting to Vamola's face and then away, like he couldn't decide whether looking at her was more or less painful than not looking at her.

Vamola, to her eternal credit, didn't bat an eye. She just kept smiling, pen poised over her notepad, radiating genuine patience.

"How about milk tea?" she offered brightly, stumbling slightly over the words. "It is... very popular! Customers like it very much." She leant in conspiratorially, dropping her voice. "I tried it yesterday. It tastes very strange! But good strange, I think?"

"Milk tea," he repeated, as if she'd just proposed a complex military stratagem. "Yes. That's — affirmative."

"And food! Okarun makes omurice. It is..." She searched for the word, then gave up and just mimed something exploding out of her head. "Really good!"

At the mention of Okarun, something flickered in his expression. A desperate attempt to reassemble his composure.

"Private Takakura's omurice, huh," he managed, adjusting his glasses with both hands now. "I... would expect nothing less from someone under my command."

The confidence was approximately ten percent of what it had been when he walked through the door, she thought.

"I'll have that," he said, and his voice only cracked a little.

Vamola beamed even wider, which shouldn't have been physically possible, and bounced away to put in the order.

Sakata-kun watched her go. He hadn't blinked in about fifteen seconds. Those antenna things bobbed as she walked, catching the light, and his eyes tracked them like a cat following a laser pointer.

Then he let out a long, shaky breath, slumped forward, and pressed his forehead against the table.

A sigh from behind the counter.

She knew what this was. She'd seen it with Takakura-kun. She'd seen it with half the lovestruck boys who wandered through her door.

And she'd put good money on the fact that whatever "backup support for subordinates" story he'd come in with, that boy was here for exactly one reason. And she was currently bouncing toward the kitchen, humming something cheerful in a language she didn't recognise.

A movement in her peripheral vision.

Takakura-kun was watching from the kitchen doorway. Arms folded, leaning against the frame, observing the scene at Sakata-kun's table with an expression that was, if she wasn't mistaken, deeply amused. It was the first real grin she'd seen from him since Momo left. Small, but there.

He tilted his head slightly, as if listening to someone just beside him.

Then he flinched, his hand flying up to his ear.

"Stop whispering right into it," he hissed, barely audible. "I've told you, it tickles—"

No one was there.

He rubbed his ear, wincing, then seemed to respond to something she couldn't hear. His grin returned, a little wider this time. Conspiratorial.

"Yeah," he murmured, eyes still on Sakata-kun's table. A quiet huff of laughter. "I know."

Another flinch. He grabbed his ear again.

"Ow — okay, okay, I'll stop—"

He ducked back into the kitchen, still rubbing the side of his head, and she watched him go.

A glance at Sakata-kun's table. The boy had recovered enough to sit upright, though he still looked slightly dazed. Vamola was delivering his tea now, chattering happily about something, and his glasses were starting to fog up.

A glance at the kitchen door, where Takakura-kun had just been holding a conversation with thin air.

A glance at her own cup of tea. Still half-full. Still normal.

Not another one, she thought.

But she was smiling when she thought it.

Sakata-kun came back the next shift Vamola was on. And the shift after that.

Not with the same theatrical entrance, mercifully. The bell had been reattached, and she would have words if it came off again. But he'd appear in the late afternoon, claim the same table, and sit there with his arms crossed and his spine straight, like a soldier holding a position he'd been ordered not to abandon.

He always ordered whatever Vamola recommended. Never argued. Never hesitated. Just "affirmative" in that trying-to-be-steady voice, while his ears slowly turned pink. She was fairly certain he'd ordered the same strawberry milk tea three visits in a row simply because Vamola kept suggesting it, and he didn't have the heart, or possibly the blood pressure, to say no.

Vamola, for her part, seemed genuinely delighted to see him each time. She'd bounce over the moment he walked in, those antenna bobbing, chattering away about the specials in her cheerful broken Japanese, and he'd nod along with an intensity that suggested he was memorising every word for later tactical review.

She wondered if he even liked milk tea.

She also noticed that Takakura-kun's mood lifted, just slightly, on the days Sakata-kun visited. He'd poke his head out of the kitchen more often, and once she caught him sliding an extra-detailed omurice design toward the serving window: a little mech with sunglasses and a long pointed tail, clearly made for a specific audience.

Sakata-kun had stared at it for a very long time before eating it.

It turned out the talking to air wasn't a one-off.

Not loudly. Just murmurs, little comments directed at nothing. He'd glance to the side, nod at empty space, respond to questions no one had asked. It happened most often when he thought he was alone in the kitchen, but she'd caught glimpses of it on the floor too: a whispered word, a tiny shake of the head, a smile aimed at a spot just past his own shoulder.

At first, she thought he might be on the phone. Some kind of earpiece, maybe, keeping in contact with Momo while she recovered. That would be sweet, actually. A way to stay connected.

But she never saw a phone. Never saw an earpiece.

Just him, alone in the kitchen, carrying on half a conversation with someone who wasn't there.

"I know, I know," he muttered one evening, elbow-deep in soapy water. "But this is the way I've always done it, and it's fine."

A pause, like he was listening.

"Yes, I'm sure." Another pause, longer this time. "Shouldn't you be helping Vamola anyway? She nearly dropped a tray earlier."

She leant against the doorframe, watching.

He tilted his head slightly, as if someone was perched on his shoulder, speaking directly into his ear. His expression softened, just a fraction, into something almost fond.

"I'll be fine," he said quietly. "Go on."

Then he went back to scrubbing. Alone.

Another evening, she passed the kitchen and heard him mid-sentence.

"—no, the pink ones go on the left. You know this." A pause. He made a face, the kind you make at someone being deliberately difficult. "Because that's where they go. Yes, it matters."

A longer pause. His hands stilled in the water.

"I know," he said, very quietly. "I miss it too, it's not the same when you're this—"

He cut himself off, turning sharply. She realised he'd spotted her shadow in the doorway. By the time she casually rounded the corner, he was scrubbing a pot with great intensity and not looking at anything in particular.

"Everything alright, Takakura-kun?"

"Fine! Everything's fine!" The smile was too wide, too bright. "Just... talking through the dish order. In my head. Out loud. Keeps me focused."

"Uh-huh."

She didn't push it.

Poor kid. He must miss her so much he was imagining she was still here. Pretending she was beside him, keeping him company through the long shifts.

Or maybe he really was calling her somehow. Maybe it was some kind of video call she couldn't see. Momo watching from wherever she was, too weak to come in but wanting to be close.

Either way, she didn't ask. It felt too private. Whatever was getting him through this, she wasn't going to take it from him.

But she found herself checking on him more often after that. Making sure he took his breaks. Slipping an extra pastry onto his plate when no one was looking.

It was all she could do.

It was on one of those checks, a quiet Tuesday, the cafe half-empty and the evening winding down, that she found him in the break room.

He was sitting at the small table in the back, arms folded on the surface, chin resting on his forearms. His eyes were open, but distant, fixed on a point on the tabletop that, as far as she could tell, contained nothing of interest. Just scratched laminate and a ring stain from someone's mug.

There was a small plate of fries beside him, untouched. She wasn't sure where they'd come from. They weren't from their menu, so maybe he'd brought them in, or Vamola had picked them up from somewhere. Either way, they sat there cooling, ignored.

He looked smaller, somehow. Not physically, he'd always been slight, but something in the way he held himself. Like the air had gone out of him.

She'd seen him tired before. She'd seen him flustered, stammering, bright red and tripping over his words. But she hadn't seen him like this. This quiet, heavy kind of sad that settled into the bones.

She almost said something. Almost crossed the room and told him to go home, that the dishes could wait, that she'd cover for him. The words were right there.

But something stopped her.

He didn't know she was watching. His gaze stayed fixed on that same empty spot on the table, and his expression shifted: a tiny furrow of the brow, the ghost of a nod, as if he was listening to something she couldn't hear.

The plate of fries shifted.

It was barely anything. A centimetre, maybe less. The plate nudged toward him across the table, the motion so slight it could have been a vibration from the street, or the building settling, or nothing at all.

A blink, and the plate was still.

Takakura-kun looked down at the fries. His expression cracked, just a little, just enough, into something that wasn't quite a smile. Sad, and fond, and aimed at no one she could see.

He reached out and took a fry. Ate it slowly, deliberately, like someone putting on a display.

She stepped back from the doorway, quiet.

She didn't know what was going on with Momo. Didn't know what kind of sickness kept someone away for weeks without explanation, or why Takakura-kun looked at empty spaces like he could see someone sitting there.

But she knew grief when she saw it. Or something close to it.

She left him to it.

It was close to a month of Momo being away when Vamola caught her by the counter during a lull.

"He is doing okay," she said, unprompted, following her gaze toward the kitchen. Her voice was gentler than usual, the cheerful bounce dialled down to something quieter. "It is hard for him. But... Momo will get better. I know it."

"You're sure?"

Vamola nodded. The starry contacts caught the light. "We will make sure. She is tough, tougher than she looks. She will be back."

Not hope. Not reassurance. Just fact, plain and simple, delivered with the quiet certainty of someone stating that the sun would rise tomorrow.

A nod, some of the tension in her chest easing for the first time in weeks.

She watched Takakura-kun through the window, still scrubbing, still quiet.

Still glancing occasionally at something she couldn't see.

Get better soon, Momo, she thought. He needs you back.

She knew before he said a word.

Takakura-kun walked in for his shift that evening and he was different. Not dramatically, not obviously, but she'd spent enough weeks watching the light drain out of this kid to notice when some of it came back. His shoulders sat a little higher. His eyes were actually present, focused, not drifting to empty corners of the room. He even hummed something under his breath as he tied his apron, which he hadn't done in weeks.

"Good news?" she asked, casual, not looking up from the register.

He turned to her, and the smile on his face was so bright and unguarded that it almost hurt to look at.

"Ayase-san is better," he said. "She can come back next week. If that's still okay."

If that's still okay. As if she'd say no. As if the answer had ever been in doubt.

"That's good to hear," she said, and meant it more than he probably knew.

He bowed, because of course he did, and practically floated into the kitchen.

She still didn't know what had been wrong. Neither of them had ever said, and the vague "she's sick, we're not sure how long" that Takakura-kun had given her all those weeks ago was clearly all she was going to get. But watching him hollow out over the weeks that followed had put any doubts about the seriousness to rest. Whatever it had been, it was real, and it was over now.

And they didn't have to lose Vamola in the exchange, either. The girl had settled into the roster like she'd always been there, and when she asked if she'd like to stay on even after Momo's return, her response had been an enthusiastic yes delivered at a volume that startled two customers and made Rei drop a teacup.

So. Momo coming back, Vamola staying on, and Takakura-kun humming in the kitchen for the first time in a month.

Things were looking up.

The first few shifts after Momo's return were the best the cafe had seen in over a month.

It was like someone had turned the lights up. Chatter and laughter spilled from every table, punctuated by the clink of teacups and the cheerful calls of orders being placed. Momo and Vamola fed off each other on the floor, bouncing between tables with matching grins, their enthusiasm infectious.

Vamola's Japanese had improved enough that the two of them had started developing bits together, little double-act routines during the tea ritual that had customers clapping along. Even the kitchen seemed livelier. She could hear Takakura-kun humming something back there, barely audible over the hum of the equipment, and the omurice designs had started appearing again unprompted.

The whole place felt like it was breathing again.

And Takakura-kun. Well. He was being even sweeter than usual, if that was possible.

She watched him hold the kitchen door open for Momo as she passed through with an empty tray, stepping aside with a small bow like she was royalty instead of a coworker. Watched him intercept a stack of dishes before she could reach for them, lifting them from the counter and ferrying them to the sink before she could protest. At one point she saw him refill Momo's water glass without being asked, setting it down at the edge of the serving window where she'd find it on her next pass.

When Momo reached for a heavy stock pot, he materialised at her elbow, gently nudging her aside.

"I'll get that."

"I can carry a pot, you know." Momo folded her arms, watching him with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and fondness.

"You should take it easy." He paused, glancing around the kitchen before continuing, a little oddly, "You only just... got better."

Momo rolled her eyes so hard her whole head moved with it. "It's been weeks, dude. I'm fine."

He didn't argue. Just carried the pot to the stove, set it down carefully, and returned to the dishes without a word. But his shoulders were tense, and she could see his jaw working, like he was physically biting back a dozen more protests.

Momo huffed, hands on her hips, watching his back as he scrubbed.

"Honestly," she muttered. "It's not like I went anywhere."

But when he turned around to grab another plate, she was smiling. Something soft and warm that she probably didn't realise was showing. Her fingers found a strand of hair, twirling it absently.

She looked away before he could catch her.

Busying herself with the register, biting back a smile of her own.

He'd been like that all shift. Hovering just close enough to help without being in the way. Fetching things before Momo could ask for them. Opening doors, intercepting anything heavier than a teacup. At one point, she'd seen him try to take a menu from Momo's hands, as if laminated cardstock was too strenuous for a recovering patient.

Momo had swatted him away with a look that could curdle milk, but the pink in her cheeks told a different story.

It was the end of the shift, everyone cleaning up, when Takakura-kun approached her.

He was wearing that expression. The pensive one. Brow furrowed, lips pressed thin, hands fidgeting at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them.

Never a good sign, that.

"Um. Manager?"

She looked up from her clipboard. "Takakura-kun?"

He stopped a few feet away. Took a breath, deep and deliberate, like he was steeling himself for battle. And then bowed, so deeply it was as if he'd been folded in half, arms thrust forward, a neat envelope clutched in trembling hands.

Shit.

She was losing her best back-of-house employee, wasn't she?

"Thank you for this opportunity!" he said, voice strained. "I'm deeply grateful for everything you've done for me!"

She stared at the envelope. Handwritten, by the looks of it. The characters were neat but cramped, like he'd been following a template and ran out of space. There was a small smudge in one corner, ink, maybe, or nervous sweat.

"Takakura-kun," she said slowly. "Are you quitting?"

"I don't want to!"

He straightened up, face flushed, words tumbling out in a rush.

"But I—we don't want to break policy, and I would never dream of making Ayase-san quit, she was here first and she loves it here and I couldn't—"

"Takakura-kun." A hand held up. "What policy? What are you talking about?"

He swallowed hard.

"It... it was mentioned when I started, and in the handbook. That employees couldn't be, um. Involved. With each other."

He was turning redder by the second.

"And once Ayase-san got better, I—I managed to confess to her. Properly. And she said yes. So we're, um. Going out now. I think."

Her brain stalled.

Confess?

"And that's against the rules," he barrelled on, eyes screwed shut like he was bracing for impact. "And I don't want to get her in trouble, even though I really, really like working here, so I'm very grateful for the opportunity but I—I have to resign!"

He dropped into the bow again, envelope thrust forward, hands shaking.

She could only stare.

Because nothing he'd just said made any sense.

Confess. He'd said confess. As in—

A glance at Momo, chatting with Vamola by the door, oblivious.

Then back at the boy, still bowed at a perfect ninety degrees, practically vibrating with anxiety.

Surely not.

Surely it couldn’t be that—

This whole time, they weren't—

"Takakura-kun," she said slowly, the pieces falling into place one by one. "You're saying... you just asked Momo out? Like, recently?"

His head jerked up, eyes wide. "Y-yes! Last night!"

Last night. Last night.

She looked at him. Really looked at him. The boy who'd been sitting in that corner booth for months. The boy who walked Momo home every single night. Who made her custom milkshakes and drew cryptids on her omurice and lit up like a sunrise every time she walked into the room.

Last night. They'd only started going out last night.

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything before the shift," he rushed on, oblivious to her crisis, "but I know that Hayashi-san is away in Osaka this week, so you wouldn't have anyone to cover the back, and I didn't want to leave you in a difficult position without warning, so I thought I should at least work tonight and—"

She waved him off, still processing. "No, no, it's fine, I just..."

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"So you're a couple now. As of... yesterday."

"Yes!" He nodded so hard his glasses nearly slid off his face. He caught them with one hand, pushed them back up, and kept nodding.

"Congratulations?"

"Thank you!"

It came out bright and earnest, like she'd just handed him an award. She wasn't entirely sure what expression she was making, but it probably wasn't the appropriate one for a resignation meeting.

A resignation she was not about to let happen.

"Well, Takakura-kun." Arms folded, face schooled into something more serious. "You've put me in an awkward situation."

His head flew up, eyes going wide. She continued, keeping her voice measured.

"It's the middle of the final semester. Hard to pick up new staff right now."

"I'm really sorry!" He pushed his glasses up, brow furrowing in concentration. "I'm sure I can find someone. Maybe Jiji... or Unji-san might be willing..."

He was muttering to himself now, cycling through what sounded like a mental list of friends he could draft into food service.

A theatrical sigh, arms thrown out. "It takes a while to train people up, you know."

"I'll help!" He straightened up, fists clenched with determination. "I'll make sure the cafe doesn't suffer from my actions, I swear! I can train them myself if I have to!"

Nodding along, adopting a thinking pose. One hand on her chin, brow furrowed. Really selling it.

"I know, I know... But how about instead..."

A glance down at him. Wide brown eyes, shining in the overhead light, staring up at her like she held his entire future in her hands.

Man. It was hard to keep a straight face with that looking up at her.

"As you and Momo have been such good employees," she said slowly, "I'll let it slide. Just this once, okay?"

He blinked. "Let it... slide?"

"As long as it isn't obvious that the two of you are..."

She had to pause. Her composure was slipping. She could feel it going, the corners of her mouth twitching, a pressure building in her chest that had absolutely nothing to do with professionalism and everything to do with the fact that she had spent months, months, watching these two orbit each other like a pair of lovesick satellites and they hadn't even been—

"...going out."

A snort escaped before she could stop it. She turned it into a cough, thumping her chest for good measure. Then another cough, for safety, because the look on his face, the sheer earnest gravity of a boy who thought he was delivering devastating news, was threatening to undo her entirely.

It didn't seem to matter. He was so enraptured, hanging on her every word, that a small explosion probably wouldn't have registered.

Clearing her throat, she continued. "I don't see why things can't continue as they are."

His brow furrowed, the grip on his glasses tightening.

"You mean..." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I can keep working here? And Ayase-san too? Even though we're..."

He couldn't even finish the sentence.

The hope in his voice would break even the strongest resolve, she was pretty sure.

"As long as—" A sudden coughing fit, her composure threatening to crack entirely. "As long as it's not obvious to patrons what's going on. None of that—"

A snort escaped. She barely managed to wrestle it back.

"—PDA or obvious lovey-dovey stuff in public, okay?"

Takakura-kun looked aghast, face flushing scarlet.

"O-of course not! I would never dream of—"

His eyes darted over to Momo, still chatting with Vamola by the upturned chairs. His blush deepened.

"It won't be a problem, Manager," he said, voice cracking slightly. "I promise."

"I'm sure," she replied, amused.

She watched as he bowed once more. She didn't think it would have been possible to bow deeper than he had before, and yet here he was, soft curls practically grazing the floor.

And then he straightened up, full of sudden cheer, and rushed over to Momo. The once-crisp resignation letter was crushed in his fist, stuffed haphazardly into his pocket as he ran.

She watched as he reached Momo's side just as she was about to flip a chair onto the table. He took it from her hands before she could lift it, already moving to do it himself.

"I've got it—"

For a brief second, it looked like he was suspended in the air.

A blink.

His feet were definitely off the ground. A good few centimetres, at least. The back of his shirt was pulled taut, fabric bunching at the collar, as if someone had grabbed him by the scruff and hoisted him up like a misbehaving cat. His legs dangled uselessly, arms still reaching for the chair.

There was a faint shimmer in the air around him. Almost teal, like a heat haze, there and gone in the space between one blink and the next.

She stared.

She'd seen a lot of strange things in her years running a maid cafe. Customers with unusual requests. Staff with unusual talents. That one incident with the pudding that they'd all agreed never to speak of again.

But she'd never seen a teenage boy float.

She rubbed her eyes. Hard. When she opened them again, he was back on the ground, squawking indignantly as Momo snatched the chair back from him with a smirk.

"I said I've got it."

"But you just—I was only trying to—Someone could have seen!"

Vamola burst into laughter, a big, unrestrained belly laugh that had her clutching her stomach, doubling over. Takakura-kun turned even redder, sputtering protests that only made her laugh harder.

Momo was laughing too, shoulders shaking, one hand covering her mouth as Takakura-kun flailed between the two of them, torn between embarrassment and indignation.

A glance down at the cup of tea she'd been nursing. She sniffed it. Smelt normal. Tasted normal, when she'd had it earlier.

She really needed more sleep.

Vamola caught her eye across the cafe. She grinned, wide and bright, and gave a little wave.

Cleanup was winding down when the door chimed.

The pink-haired girl, Aira, stood in the doorway with her hands planted on her hips, surveying the cafe like she owned the place. Jiji and Sakata-kun flanked her: Jiji already grinning and waving at Momo across the floor, Sakata-kun hanging back with his hands in his pockets and his eyes drifting immediately to Vamola.

"Vamola!" Aira called out, voice carrying across the empty floor. "Let's go. I'm saving you from having to watch these two be sickening together all night."

She jerked her thumb toward Momo and Takakura-kun, who were putting up the last of the chairs. They weren't even doing anything particularly sickening at the moment, just working side by side, shoulders almost touching, trading small smiles when they thought the other wasn't looking.

But she supposed that was rather the point.

Vamola giggled, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She glanced back at the pair, something warm and knowing in her expression.

"It's nice to see, though."

"You share a room with her. You'll see plenty." The pink-haired girl was already reaching for Vamola's arm when Sakata-kun cleared his throat.

"Actually," he said, adjusting his glasses with a deliberateness she recognised by now, "Vamola and I have plans already."

Vamola's giggle turned into something brighter. "We do!"

The pink-haired girl stared at them. Then she threw her arms up.

"Fine! Great! Wonderful!" She spun on her heel, grabbing Jiji by the sleeve. "Come on, Enjoji, we have plans now too."

"We do?" Jiji blinked, stumbling as she dragged him toward the door. "What plans? Aira—hey, ow—what plans?!"

"Plans! Keep up!"

They tumbled out into the evening in a mess of protests and laughter, Vamola and Sakata-kun following at a more leisurely pace. Vamola waved over her shoulder, beaming.

"Bye, Momo! Bye, Okarun!"

"Have fun!" Momo called after them, her smile bright enough to light up the dim cafe.

The door swung shut with another chime. The noise faded, and the cafe fell into comfortable silence.

And then it was just the three of them.

She lingered by the counter, cloth in hand, making a show of wiping down the already-spotless register. She wasn't spying. She was just... observing. Managerial oversight. Perfectly professional.

They finished with the chairs in easy silence, the kind of silence that came from knowing exactly where the other person would be without having to look. Takakura-kun grabbed his bag from the corner, the same worn thing he'd been carrying since his homework-in-the-booth days, now with what looked like a flour stain on one strap. Momo pulled off her apron, folding it with the same neat precision she brought to everything, tucking it into her locker in one smooth motion.

They met by the door without a word.

Their hands found each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. Fingers intertwining, unhurried and familiar, as easy as breathing.

She tilted her head, cloth stilling against the counter.

Honestly, they didn't look any different than before. The same easy closeness. The same small smiles exchanged like secrets they thought no one else could see. If she hadn't just witnessed that whole resignation debacle, the trembling envelope, the ninety-degree bow, the earnest declaration of I managed to confess properly, she wouldn't have thought anything had changed at all.

Maybe it hadn't, really.

Maybe they'd just finally caught up to what everyone else could already see.

They slipped out into the corridor, and she heard their footsteps heading toward the elevator. She should have let them go. She had closing to finish, lights to shut off, a register to lock up.

But something made her follow, just a few steps, just far enough to catch a glimpse down the corridor before the elevator arrived.

And then Momo got that look.

She knew that look. She'd seen it a dozen times on the floor: the sly curl of the lips, the glint in the eye, the split-second warning before Momo did something that would leave Takakura-kun a flustered, sputtering mess.

Momo tugged him toward her. Quick. Playful.

And planted a peck on his cheek.

Blink and you'd miss it.

But she didn't blink.

She saw Momo's face flush pink the moment she pulled back, sudden shyness overtaking the bravado. Saw her duck her head, fingers tightening around his hand. Saw Takakura-kun freeze mid-step, ears turning scarlet, mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a fish that had forgotten how water worked.

Well, that was certainly new.

Maybe they really had just started dating.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open. And Takakura-kun, brain still running three steps behind his body, turned just enough to catch sight of her at the end of the corridor.

He went rigid.

Eyes wide. Colour draining from his face before flooding back twice as strong, all the way to the tips of his ears. That same deer-in-headlights look from the very first day, when he'd stepped off the elevator and seen Momo in the uniform. Every promise he'd made not even an hour ago flashing behind his eyes in neon letters.

No PDA. None of that lovey-dovey stuff. It won't be a problem, Manager, I promise.

She could practically hear his internal screaming from here.

She just smiled.

Slowly, deliberately, she raised a finger to her lips.

Shh.

The tension drained out of him all at once. His shoulders sagged with relief, and he gave her a small, grateful smile. Almost a bow, but not quite. A silent thank you, earnest and warm.

Then Momo tugged at his hand, pulling him into the elevator with a laugh. She was saying something she couldn't quite catch, probably teasing him about getting caught, and his indignant squawk was cut off by the doors sliding shut.

She drifted to the window.

A few moments later, two figures emerged onto the street below. She watched them from above, the tops of their heads caught in the glow of the streetlights. Their footsteps were slightly out of sync. Their hands found each other without looking.

Momo shoulder-checked him. Even from up here, she could see his shoulders shake with a laugh. He rubbed the back of his head, and Momo threw her head back, delighted with herself.

They rounded the corner and were swallowed up by the night.

She stayed by the window a moment longer, arms crossed, the glass cool against her skin. Somewhere in the distance, a train rumbled past.

Then she turned back to her cafe.

She flicked off the lights one by one, the room dimming in stages. The display case first, then the soft glow over the counter, then the warm lights that hung above the tables. The shadows crept in, familiar and comfortable.

The chairs were up. The register was closed. Another shift done.

She paused by the back door, hand hovering over the last switch, and let her gaze drift across the empty room.

The corner booth, half-hidden in shadow now, where a quiet boy used to sit with his nose buried in textbooks and UFO magazines. The kitchen doorway, where he'd learnt to turn frozen desserts into something worth posting about. The serving window, where a custom milkshake would appear without being asked, always a little too sour, always just right. The floor, worn smooth by a thousand footsteps, where a girl in a maid outfit used to steal glances at him when she thought no one was watching.

And where he'd steal glances right back, ears pink, convinced he was being subtle.

Neither of them had ever been subtle. Not once. Not for a single moment.

She smiled to herself, soft and fond.

She flicked the last light off, and stepped out the door.