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Miri stood in the soft, flour-dusted light of the kitchen. On the counter sat an array of ingredients that looked less like a baking project and more like a taunt. "Are you sure about this?" Rei asked, his voice hesitant.
Miri turned, and the fire in her fifteen-year-old eyes was the same as it had been at four. "Absolutely!"
Rei's gaze drifted from her determined smile to the mise en place mocking him from the wooden counter. A bowl of eggs, dangerously close to the edge, sat innocent. A bottle of milk, sweating in the warm air. A small pot where a pat of butter slowly surrendered to the sunlight. An assortment of small bowls held mysterious powders and granules—things Kazuki would have named without looking. To Rei, they were alien artifacts.
"We can just buy one. Like we do every year," he stated. "At least it will be perfect."
Miri planted a hand on her hip, a gesture so perfectly Kazuki it made Rei blink in surprise. "They don't have the most important ingredient—"
"Sugar? Flour? I assure you, bakeries have those—"
"Love!" she declared. A decade of watching, of hovering at Kazuki's elbow in this very kitchen, showing. "Besides, I know the recipe. Kazu-papa told me everything."
Rei's expression didn't change, but a single eyebrow lifted a millimeter. It was his equivalent of a theatrical sigh. "That," he said, his voice dry as the cake flour, "is what you said last year before you set off the fire alarm and we ended up buying the cake from the patisserie three blocks over."
"This time is different!" Miri insisted, already reaching for the largest bowl. "I've been watching Kazu-papa for months."
Rei watched her for a long moment. Then, without a word, he reached for the apron hanging on a hook—the one with tiny cartoon whales that Kazuki had bought as a joke. He slipped it over his head.
"Fine," he said, tying the strings. "But if we ruin it, you're buying the cake with your allowance."
A brilliant, victorious smile broke across Miri's face. "Deal. Now, hand me the vanilla. The real one, the one Kazu-papa keeps hidden."
In a few minutes, the kitchen looked like a war zone. A dusting of flour snowed over every surface, a rogue splatter of batter adorned the wall, and several eggshell casualties lay in the sink. Miri, wielding the whisk, surveyed the chaos with forced optimism.
"It's… rustic," she said, trying to ignore the single, sad drip of batter sliding down the cupboard door. She couldn't focus on the mess. She had to focus on the why. Kazuki made theirs from scratch every single year—the perfect, fluffy, lemon-scented masterpiece that was the centerpiece of the day. After everything he did, this was the least they could do.
Rei stood beside her, holding a bag of powdered sugar with intense focus. His culinary mastery began and ended with French toast. Cake, he had discovered, was a complex chemical reaction disguised as a fun activity.
"This says 'fold gently'," he read from the tablet, frowning at the churning vortex Miri was creating in the bowl. "You are… aggressively stirring."
"This is gentle!" Miri protested, her motions slowing not one bit. "It needs air! Kazu-papa says."
A moment later, the instruction to "gradually add the dry ingredients" was interpreted by Rei as a single pour. A mushroom cloud of flour enveloped them both.
They stood frozen for a moment.
"We'll call it a 'flour glaze'," Miri coughed, blinking white from her eyelashes. Rei merely gave a slow, solemn nod, a man accepting his fate.
The final batter was too thick. Or was it too thin? It was lumpy in places and smooth in others. When they poured it into the tin, it didn't slither seductively; it plopped with a discouraging, doughy sound.
"Well," Rei started, "I don't think it's poisonous, so..."
"Into the oven it goes!" Miri exclaimed, closing the oven the way she does when she's putting her clothes in her closet—too fast before everything comes crashing down.
She straightened up, surveying the battlefield, her brows furrowed. "We have to clean this up."
Rei followed her gaze. She was right. Kazuki would rather clean up the mess instead of celebrating his birthday the second he stepped into the house. "Yeah. You clean the counter, I'll do the dishes."
Miri didn't need telling twice. She attacked the counter with a damp cloth, humming to herself. She carefully collected the eggshells and disposed of the ruined kitchen clothes sacrificed for their mission.
Rei, watching her, sighed as his eyes caught the spots of butter and batter still stubbornly on the counter. He turned to the sink, sighing again at the amount of dishes awaiting him.
Across town, in a sun-drenched corner of a different, more upscale café, Kazuki sat across from Kyutaro, a half-finished cup of coffee growing cold between his hands.
"—and then the supplier had the audacity to say the coffee beans were 'suffering from a lack of motivation,'" Kyutaro deadpanned, stirring his own espresso. "I told him to put them in therapy and get me my order by Thursday."
Kazuki laughed. "You're too soft on them. Rei would just stare until they apologize."
"Rei's method is effective, but bad for the business relationship long-term," Kyutaro said, a faint smirk playing on his lips. His role had evolved from uncle to secret keeper in the last week, and he'd taken it to heart.
He deftly steered the conversation, keeping it light yet engaging. He asked after the diner's new summer menu, listened to Kazuki's woes about a particular stain on Rei's new white shirt that just won't come off, and even looked at Kazuki's gallery filled with Miri's latest art.
When Kazuki glanced at his watch, Kyutaro was ready. "Before you go, I need a second opinion." He pulled out his phone, opening a gallery of obscenely expensive, professional-grade kitchen knives. "For a… client. Which says 'serious amateur' and not 'compensating for something'?"
Kazuki, a lifelong appreciator of good tools, leaned in, his eyes going to a certain knife before he forced his gaze to the rest of the gallery. The minutes ticked by, expertly stolen.
Back at the diner, the final spoon was dried and put away. The counters gleamed. The floor showed no trace of their floury footprints. Miri and Rei stood side-by-side, surveying their work. The only evidence of their afternoon was the warm, sweet, slightly dubious scent now wafting from the oven and the faint smell of citrus soap.
"Okay," Miri said, a grin spreading across her face. "Phase two. Decorations!"
Rei gave a single nod.
From a large, fancy paper bag from a department store Kyutaro frequented, Miri pulled out the bag containing the decorations they have bought a week ago to go with the homemade banner—streamers, confetti, and there, at the end of the bag, was a comically large candle shaped like a "40", almost the size of her hand. Miri shot Rei a look.
"Seriously, Rei-papa?"
Rei shrugged, smirking. "What? He's forty, isn't he?"
Miri frowned, turning the candle between her fingers. "It's way too big, don't you think?"
Rei's smirk widened. "So he doesn't forget how old he is."
"I think his back is doing a good job at that." She looked around. "We have to hang the streamers. Maybe in the living room. Over the couch, where he'll see them first thing."
They both looked up at the chosen spot: a bare expanse of ceiling above their large, comfortable couch. Then they looked at each other. Then they looked at the ladder leaning on the wall far away—a rickety, aluminum contraption Kazuki used to change lightbulbs and which they were both secretly terrified of.
Rei dragged it out. It gave an unnerving creak as he unfolded it. He gave it a tentative shake. It wobbled like a newborn deer.
"That will not hold you," Miri stated with a shake of her head.
"It might not even hold you," Rei countered, eyeing the flimsy hinges.
Miri, undeterred, grabbed a chair, climbed on it, and stretched her arm up as high as she could. Her fingertips didn't even approach the ideal spot. Rei tried, reaching up. He could get closer, but to actually center and secure the scroll, he'd need another four inches of height, at least. The ceiling mocked them.
"We can hang the banner only," Rei offered. "I could reach a good spot on the wall on the chair."
"But the streamers, Rei-papa!" Miri insisted. "They'll make the house look lively."
They stood there, under the ceiling, the perfect decorations lying useless on the table. The ladder was a death trap. Rei's vertical reach was insufficient. They had no Plan B.
Then, Miri's eyes landed on Rei. Not on his face, but on his shoulders. A slow, mischievous, and utterly terrifying smile spread across her lips.
"No," Rei said immediately, reading her mind.
"It's the only way!" Miri insisted, the idea taking full, glorious shape in her head. "The ladder is out. I can't reach it, and neither can you. But if I'm on your shoulders, my reach plus your height…"
"That is a terrible idea," Rei said flatly, already picturing all the ways it could go wrong. Whiplash, concussion, broken bones, broken daughter.
Miri turned to him, summoning her puppy eyes. "Come on! Please? For Kazu-papa?"
Rei, already having nonexistent immune for her smile, gave in after a mere second. "Kazuki's going to kill us both if he finds out."
Miri waved a dismissive hand. "Who says he has to?"
"The hospital when this goes wrong." Rei sighed, a long, suffering sound. He slowly bent down just enough for her to climb on his shoulders. "Be quick, before I come to my senses."
Miri climbed onto the couch, her excitement now mixed with concentration and a little fear as she realized what she was indeed doing. On Rei's count, she placed her hands on his shoulders and, with a graceful hop he felt in his knees, she was up. Rei straightened slowly, his hands coming up to secure her ankles with a grip that was probably cutting off her circulation.
"Okay?" he ground out, his neck already protesting.
"I forgot how amazing this feels," Miri whispered, a giggle escaping her. Then she focused. "A little to the left… stop. Perfect."
With one hand braced against the wall for stability, she secured a single streamer with triumph. Rei, blind below her, held utterly still.
A moment of fiddling, then, "Done! Lower the tower!"
Rei bent his knees with glacial slowness, letting her slide down his back until her feet found the couch cushions again. He stepped away, rolled his shoulders with a wince, and turned to look.
The streamer stuck to the ceiling, barely moving the graceful spin it was supposed to.
He looked around. Then at the rest of the streamers on the table.
They still had a lot of work left to do.
Kazuki shuddered, a hand flying to his heart.
"Are you okay?" Kyutaro asked, putting the plate he was wiping down and turning to him.
Kazuki looked around, as if searching for someone. "Something that shouldn't be happening is happening at home right now."
Kyutaro shook his head, bringing out another stack of plates to wipe. "Is that so?"
"Yes!" Kazuki exclaimed, then his eyes narrowed. "You know something, don't you?"
"All I can say is that nothing is on fire. Probably."
"Probably?" Kazuki echoed, horror dawning upon him.
"Try to relax, Kazuki," Kyutaro muttered, smiling slightly. "You overthink too much."
Kazuki sat back, a soft sigh escaping him. He looked out the window again, his expression softening into something profoundly fond. He checked his phone, and the smile widened. The performance was over.
"You do realize I know what today is, right?"
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk finally broke through Kyutaro's facade. "The thought had occurred to me."
"And you know they know," Kazuki continued, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the window. "Rei gets this look—like he's guarding state secrets . And Miri has asked me what my favorite cake is three times this week."
Kyutaro gave a single nod. "Then I don't see any purpose to my mission. They have been planning for the entire week. The first three days were just arguing about frosting flavor."
The only sound was that of cups meeting their plates with soft clinks that were drowned out by the laughter and whispers around. He could see it all in his mind's eye—Rei and Miri messing up the cake, probably ending up buying it like they do every year, Miri standing on a chair to hang the streamers because the ladder isn't fixed yet, them probably thinking they were so slick.
"So," Kazuki finally said, finishing his coffee. "You're giving them their runway."
"I was," Kyutaro replied. "They want to surprise you." He paused, then added, with a glint in his eye that was purely for his old friend, "Also, the Princess has sworn me to secrecy with a severity I haven't seen since the old days. It was impressive."
Kazuki shook his head, warmth flooding his chest. He slid out of the booth and stood, stretching. "Alright, Kyu. What's the play? How long do I need to wander the fish market or stare wistfully at the sea?"
Kyutaro checked his phone. "I still haven't gotten the thumbs up. But last time Rei texted was..." He calculated. "Forty-five minutes. I recommend the long way home. Perhaps we can drive around a little until it's time."
Kazuki nodded, slipping his jacket on and getting up. "I'll wait for you in the car."
Kyutaro gave another brief nod. "I'll close up and follow you."
Rei and Miri stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchen, staring into the oven through its glass door. Inside, on the middle rack, sat their masterpiece: the single-layer chocolate cake.
The process had been a mess. They weren't sure whether they had added salt or sugar. The batter didn't look right.
But now, it was baked. And it looked… like a cake. It was domed in the middle, a sign of their over-enthusiastic mixing, and one side was slightly darker than the other. But it was intact. It hadn't sunk. It hadn't burned to a crisp. It was, by the generous standards of their mission, a wild success.
"Okay," Rei said, the word a whisper. He pulled on the oven mitts—bright red ones with cartoon lobsters that Kazuki found ironic and they found embarrassing. "Extraction."
He opened the oven door, a wave of rich, chocolate-scented heat pouring into the kitchen. He slid the rack out, gripped the pan, and lifted. The cake, in its rectangular pan, looked vulnerable. He carried it like a man transporting an unstable explosive to the wire cooling rack Miri had set up on the counter.
They both stared at it as it sat there, radiating heat. The real test was next. The most dangerous phase.
"The recipe says let it cool completely before icing," Miri read from the tablet, her finger underlining the words. "Or the icing will melt and slide off."
Rei looked at the cake, then at the clock. Time was both an ally and an enemy. "We wait," he declared.
For thirty minutes, they paced. They straightened already-straight cushions. They adjusted the streamers on the walls—ignoring the ones on the ceiling, Rei was certain he'll feel this in the middle of the night—so they spun more freely, or as freely as they can get. They kept wandering back to the kitchen to stare at the cake, as if their impatience could accelerate physics. Finally, Rei deemed it cool enough to touch. He carefully ran a knife around the edge of the pan. Miri held her breath.
He placed a plate over the top, took a deep breath, and flipped the whole assembly over. A soft thump. He lifted the pan.
The cake sat on the plate, whole. A little crumby around the edges where it had stuck, but whole. They had successfully unmolded a baked good. Rei stares at it, then at his hands, trying to process the fact that he had done this. "It worked..."
Now, the icing. Kazuki's recipe for chocolate buttercream was deceptively simple: butter, powdered sugar, cocoa, a splash of milk, vanilla. A list of ingredients that, in his hands, became silk. In theirs, it was a minefield.
Rei had set the butter on the counter to soften an hour ago. It was now soft enough. Miri measured the powdered sugar, creating another, finer white cloud that settled over everything. Rei tackled the cocoa, dumping it into the bowl with the sugar.
"The mixer," Miri said, pointing to the stand mixer Kazuki treated like a holy relic.
Rei eyed the machine with distrust. He knew how to clean it. He had no idea how to operate it. After a minute of studying the levers, he fit the bowl into place and clicked on the paddle attachment. He turned the dial to the lowest setting.
The machine whirred to life. The dry ingredients poofed up in a brown haze. So far, so good. He added the butter in chunks. The mixer churned, making a slapping sound as the paddle fought the dense butter and sugar. It didn't look "creamy" It looked like damp sand being aggressively stirred.
"It says 'whip until light and fluffy'," Miri reported, peering at the recipe.
Rei turned the dial up a notch. The mixer's whine increased in pitch. The mixture began to climb the sides of the bowl. He stopped, scraped down the sides with a spatula, and added the milk and vanilla. He turned the dial higher.
This was a mistake.
The mixer, now at a medium speed, finally achieved critical mass. There was a whump, and a tidal wave of pale brown, gritty buttercream launched from the bowl. It hit Rei square in the chest with a wet splat. A smaller wave arced onto Miri's shoulder. A fine mist settled over the front of the cabinets.
They both froze, covered in sugary, cocoa-flecked grime.
The mixer continued to whirr happily, now paddling through a significantly reduced amount of icing.
Rei slowly looked down at the mess on his shirt, then at Miri's stunned face, then at the still-whirring machine. A sound escaped him—a choked, disbelieving snort. Miri's eyes went from her shoulder to his face, and a giggle burst out of her, high and unstoppable.
After a minute, Miri stood back from the counter, surveying their work. The cake loomed before them, awaiting the frosting. "You think this is enough for the cake?" she asked, her voice suddenly small, though she already knew the answer.
Rei stood beside her, cleaning the smudge of chocolate from his apron. He tilted his head. "I don’t know…” he said slowly, dragging the words out. "But I think so. It will cover everything."
And like a switch being flipped, Miri's breathing hitched. "It's just…" her sentence trailed off into a sigh. Her hands fluttered helplessly near the frosting bowl.
Rei turned to face her fully, his eyes searching her face. "You okay?"
Miri opened her mouth. Closed it. She picked up the spatula and scraped the bowl, as if she could conjure more frosting by sheer will. Her lower lip trembled, just slightly.
Rei's brows furrowed. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before resting gently on her shoulder, slowly turning her so she was facing him. "Hey. Talk to me."
The words tumbled out in a rush. "I just wanted it to be perfect. Kazu-papa always makes our birthdays perfect. The cake, the decorations… He goes all the way, every time." She looked up at Rei, her eyes shimmering. "And I… I just wanted to do this one thing for him. To surprise him this year. To make him that happy."
"But he is always happy..." Rei muttered, as if it was the simplest truth of all.
Miri shook her head. "I know he is!" she exclaimed, almost fondly. "He's always happy with his birthday every year, even when the house isn't decorated and the cake is bought... but it would've felt nice, you know?" Her finger traced a path through the cocoa powder on the counter, trying to choose her next words. "I wanted him to come and find the house decorated, the cake we made perfect, the gift wrapped like the ones on the internet..."
Rei was quiet for a long moment. He slowly set the electric mixer down, his eyes taking in the place.
The streamers weren't hanging evenly, some too high, almost stuck the ceiling, and others Rei was certain would fall off at the lightest breeze of air. The gift sat on the couch, the red wrapping clumsy and unprofessional. The cake itself probably wasn't that good, and the frosting won't properly cover it all. They haven't even made his favorite foods.
But they were trying, weren't they?
They had went all the way this year. Miri had spent an entire night calculating the cost of the gift and substracting it from the art supplies and video games fund, making sure it won't affect the diner or the household, even if it meant Rei would play with the laggy controller for another month, and she would work with the art set she has. He had gone out shopping, alone, while Miri was keeping Kazuki distracted, and gotten the decorations, enduring the strangers who existed outside of his safe bubble here, at home. They had woken up at five one day to wrap the gift before Kazuki woke up. Miri had been watching him for months trying to memorize how to make a simple cake.
"He's going to be happy... but not because it's perfect," he finally said. "Because we made it. For him."
Miri looked at him. Since when was her Rei-papa good with words?
"You know…" he began, not noticing her gaze. "I wasn't always that perfect at making French toast, either."
Miri blinked.
"The first time I ever tried to make it for him," he continued, a faint, crooked smile touching his lips, "Kazuki took one bite and said it was… well, he said it was 'nasty'."
"He did?" Miri asked, a small smile breaking through. "That's weird. I don't remember that at all."
"You were five," Rei said with a shrug. "You probably don't remember a lot of things." He paused, his expression growing thoughtful. "But do you know what we did after he said that?"
Miri shook her head, her bun almost coming loose with the motion.
"We practiced. Every Saturday, for… I don't know, a few months? We burned a lot of bread. Used too much cinnamon. Not enough egg. One time we used salt instead of sugar. Until he finally said it was good, and now... people come to eat it." He stared at his hands, still surprised these hands that had once served death now served something so sweet strangers came to try it. "My point is… it's okay if this cake isn't perfect. What matters is that we're making it. With my actual hands, not just buying it with my money. We're doing it together." He looked up, his indigo eyes meeting her brown ones shadowed by tears. "Like you said before—it has the most important ingredient already."
"Love?" Miri whispered.
Rei nodded. "Yeah."
In an instant, Miri threw her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chocolate-stained apron, earning a brown smear on her cheek. "Thanks, Rei-papa," her voice was muffled against the fabric. After a moment, she leaned back, searching his face. "You really think he'll like it?"
Rei looked at the cake—its burnt side, its dip in the middle, its the slightly gritty texture. He looked back at his daughter, her hope so fragile and bright. He reached out, and wiped her cheek with his thumb.
"Yes," he said, believing it for the first time. "It's not perfect. But he's going to take one look at it, and his eyes are going to get all watery. He'll finish his entire slice and ask for more. And then," Rei gave her shoulder a little squeeze, "he'll put on his apron, stand right here between us, and show us exactly how to make a proper one next time. We'll mess up again, probably. But we'll get it right eventually. Together."
Miri looked at the cake again, and this time, she saw not its flaws, but the thought behind it, even despite the mess—the flour on the ceiling, the eggshell fished out of the batter, the butter cream on the counter. She held up the mixer.
"Okay." she said, her voice steady now. "Let's see if we can save it. We have… less icing. But it looks like icing! What can we do about the amount?"
Rei thought for a moment. "We can add more milk?"
Miri frowned. "But then it'll lose its flavor..."
"Then we add more powdered cocoa. We have plenty."
"Yes! Genius!"
And together, they got to work.
The engine of Kyutaro's car purred.
The conversation had lapsed into silence, the kind that wasn't necessarily awkward, but peaceful. Kyutaro was navigating the familiar turns, his focus on the road, while Kazuki gazed out at the late afternoon light dancing on the water, a soft, unfocused smile on his face.
"Still not gonna tell me what the gift is?" Kazuki asked, not for the first time.
"I have sworn to her highness. The secret shall not be revealed," Kyutaro replied. "You'll know soon, anyway."
"Tell me now and I won't tell anyone."
Kyutaro shook his head.
"I'll make your favorite when you visit next time."
"Tempting, but no."
"At least tell me its nature. Is it sentimental? Practical? Homemade—"
"Kazuki."
Kazuki stopped. "Alright, alright," he muttered, visibly shrinking in his seat. "No need to pull out that tone."
Kyutaro tilted his head, his glasses catching the light and obscuring his eyes for a moment. He smirked. Still works.
"It's just… I don't want it to be something ridiculously expensive, you know?. I know them," Kazuki's voice came from beside him. "And we can't afford to slip. Not now. Miri's art supplies—the good paper, those professional-grade paints she's been talking about as a present if she got good grades this year—they're not cheap." His breath hitched. "I tried telling them. Really. I'll be perfectly happy with just the cake and us together. That's all I need."
Kyutaro let out a long, impatient sigh. He'd listened to this record more times than he can count. "You should really start appreciating the sacrifices they make for you instead of mourning them," he said, his voice softening slightly. "You wear an apron until it's more thread than fabric, stitching it up in secret so Miri never once suspects things might be tight. You remember that obscure French pastry Rei idly mentioned loving once, three months ago, and you're up at two in the morning, mastering it just to see the shock on his face over breakfast."
"It makes him in a good mood for the rest of the day. Washes the dishes without arguing. It's for me, not him." The lie was so transparent it was an insult to say it to the man beside him.
Kyutaro decided he didn't hear it. "You give and give, and you call it your role. But love isn't a role, Kazuki. It's an exchange." He paused, making sure his words were heard well. "And their part of that exchange? It's making sure you don't lose yourself in the giving. They've been planning for this gift for months. They came to me more than once. One time to hide it, another to ask for advice, a third to help them wrap it. She drew the card herself weeks ago and has been guarding it like treasure, Kazuki. All of it, was so they could see your face light up. And you're telling me you'd rather frown just because it came with a price tag?"
"When you put it like that…" Kazuki whispered, "It makes me sound like an ungrateful idiot."
"You are, in a way," Kyutaro said honestly. "An idiot who doesn't know how to be on the receiving end, even after all these years. Let them have this. For them and for you."
"Okay, yeah. You're right..."
The peace held for a half-minute.
Then, Kyutaro heard it. Just a single, sharp intake of breath—a sniffle that was instantly stifled.
He didn't turn his head. His hands remained at ten and two on the steering wheel. In his peripheral vision, he saw Kazuki turn his face even more toward the window, his shoulders tightening.
Another sniffle, this one wetter. Kazuki raised a hand, pretending to rub at his eye as if a speck of dust had flown in through the vent.
That was all the confirmation Kyutaro needed. With his left hand, he calmly reached into the compartment in his door, retrieved a small, travel-sized packet of tissues, and placed it on the center console between them without a word.
A choked, watery laugh escaped Kazuki, the sound equal parts embarrassment and surrender. "Damn it, Kyu," he muttered, his voice thick as he finally snatched a tissue. "You see everything."
"It's my job, as you know," Kyutaro replied. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, opened it, and smiled. His eyes returned to the road, on the turn that would lead to the diner doors, and then to the house upstairs.
Kazuki dabbed at his eyes, the fight leaving him. He stared at the tissue, then out at the passing houses. "They're probably a disaster zone," he whispered.
"Probably," Kyutaro said. "An enthusiastic disaster."
He brought the car to a stop a few houses down, the engine falling quiet. He didn't look at Kazuki, giving him the last thirty seconds of to restore his dignity.
The cake, in all its lopsided glory, sat centered on the table, the large forty-shaped candle standing proudly in the middle. The lights were turned off. The only illumination came from the small ray of sunlight outside filtering through the blue and white curtains. Miri and Rei stood flanking the table, waiting.
Miri was vibrating, her smile so wide it seemed to light the dim room more than the candle. Rei stood with his arms crossed, frowning at their lopsided creation, his posture unnaturally rigid.
The key turned in the lock.
The door swung inward, and Kazuki stepped across the threshold, Kyutaro a step behind him. For a split second, they were just silhouettes. Then, Kazuki froze. His body performed a perfect, pantomimed jolt of surprise—a slight stumble back, a hand flying to his chest, his eyes wide.
"SURPRISE!" Miri exploded, her voice shattering the quiet. She bounced on her toes.
Kazuki's act was basically see-through, at least to them. His face melted from shock into a dazzled, overwhelmed grin, his gaze sweeping over the lopsided cake, the haphazard streamers, and finally landing on the two of them. "What in the world…?" he breathed, the picture of delighted bewilderment.
Miri smiled. "Cut the act, Kazu-papa. You knew, didn't you?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Kazuki said, though he knew Miri wasn't buying it.
"You're a lousy actor, Papa..."
"Where did you learn that?!" Kazuki exclaimed. "It's Rei, right?!"
His eyes met Rei's across the flickering candlelight, who had the audacity to innocently shake his head.
Kazuki walked inside, his performance shifting from "shocked" to "genuinely moved". He moved toward them, his eyes glistening with emotion that required no acting at all. He pulled Miri into a one-armed hug, pressing a kiss to her flour-dusted hair, then reached out and pulled Rei into the hug with his other arm. Miri reached out blindly and found Kyutaro's hand, pulling him in. And who was he to say no to her? He went, though not standing as close, mainly because of the chocolate sticking to Rei and Miri, and now, to Kazuki
"You two…" Kazuki managed, his voice rough. "You did all this?"
"The cake is probably not poisonous," Rei stated solemnly.
Kazuki blinked, processing. "You... made it?"
They nodded, Miri smiling hopefully. "Decided to try something new this year."
"It's not perfect, but..." Rei started, hesitated, then muttered, "but we tried."
Miri was practically vibrating, pulling at his hand. "Make a wish, Kazu-papa! Quick, before the wax melts!"
Kazuki looked from her bright face to Rei's hesitant one. He didn't need to think. The wish had been answered, daily, for over a decade. He leaned forward, the candlelight painting his features in warm gold, and blew.
The flame vanished with a tiny puff, leaving a thin ribbon of smoke that curled up. The lights were turned on not long after.
He didn't say a word about the cake's slope, its two shades of brown, or the geological oddity of its frosting hill. It was too sweet, the sugar not dissolved well in the frosting, and it was under baked in the middle.
It was the best thing he'd ever tasted.
The last of the cake had been cleared away. Miri and Rei exchanged a glance. The cake was over. Now, for the main event.
Miri vanished into her room, returning a moment later with a long, slender box wrapped in simple, elegant navy paper. No bows, no glitter. It was tied with a single twine string. She placed it carefully on the table in front of Kazuki.
Rei stood beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, but his eyes were fixed on Kazuki's face, analyzing every micro-expression. This was the moment their weeks of planning had been for.
"For you," Miri said, her voice soft. "From both of us."
Kazuki looked from her earnest face to Rei's, slowly picking up the box. He knew this weight. This was no ordinary gift. His fingers, usually so sure, fumbled slightly with the simple twine knot.
The paper fell away to reveal a long, black matte box. He knew this box. Every chef who had ever browsed the high-end cutlery supplier's catalog knew this box. His breath hitched. Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted the lid.
Nestled in gray felt, catching the soft kitchen light, was a knife. Sturdy, velvet handle, with an elegant design, the blade shiny enough to compete his eyes in an emotional moment—which said something. It was the same knife he had pointed out to Kyutaro in the café only that afternoon with a wistful, "A man can dream." The one he'd spent months admiring online, studying reviews of, and always dismissing as an impossible luxury for a simple seaside diner.
He didn't pick it up yet. He just stared, his hands hovering over the box. The air left his lungs in a soft sigh. For a long moment, there was only the sound of the waves and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
Then, a single, fat tear rolled down his cheek and splashed onto the tabletop.
Another followed. Then another. The dam broke. He crumpled forward, his shoulders trembling as his hands came up to cover his face, his frame wracked with silent, overwhelming tears.
Miri's nervous expression melted into a grin. She didn't rush to hug him; she just watched, her own eyes glistening.
Rei, who had prepared for a "This is too much" or a "The budget...", now saw the shaking of Kazuki's shoulders and the heaving breaths and his stance relaxed. He gave a nod back to Miri, then at Kyutaro, his own lips twitching upwards. Mission success.
Finally, Kazuki managed to lift his head. His face was a mess of tears, but he was smiling—a wobbly, breathtakingly grateful smile. He looked from the knife to them, his voice a shattered thing.
"You… you impossible, wonderful… how did you even…?" He couldn't form the sentence.
Rei finally spoke. "Kyu handled the ordering. Miri managed the budget from the video games and art supplies fund. I made sure it was hidden well so you won't find it while cleaning." He paused. "So?"
The loud, wet sniffle answered him. "I love it!" Kazuki yelled, his voice muffled by another napkin Kyutaro has apparently summoned out of thin air.
Miri giggled brightly, finally rushing to hug him. "Happy birthday, Kazu-papa."
Kazuki looked at her, then immediately exploded into another salty waterfall. "Thanks, I mean, you made the cake yourself and decorated the house—wait a second." The tears stopped abruptly. He looked up, at the wall, the lopsided banner, then at the ceiling, squinting at the streamers semi-dangling. Kyutaro followed his gaze, brows furrowing in confusion.
"How did you two reach the ceiling?"
Silence.
Rei and Miri looked at each other.
"The ladder, perhaps?" Kyutaro provided, only to earn a sharp shake of Rei's head in his direction.
"It's broken," Kazuki said quietly.
Rei uncrossed his arms. "Who wants more cake?" he asked, trying to deflect before this could take a dangerous turn.
"Rei..." Kazuki started, his voice scarily even and quiet. "Don't tell me you stood on a chair..."
The partners in crime froze, thought, then nodded, latching onto the best excuse that was likely to have a better sentence than the real answer. "Yes!" Miri said quickly. "But it's just this once, for you?"
Rei nodded beside her. "Won't happen again."
"Promise!"
After a few terrifying seconds of Kazuki considering, he finally smiled, shrugging. "Alright, I'll let it pass this time. Now, I want another piece of that cake, then you two better prepare to be taught how to make a proper one next time!"