"Planning a feast for one, Kaito? That’s a lot of eggs for a bachelor."

Kaito turned to find Juho, his colleague and a fellow psychiatrist, leaning against a display of imported pasta. Juho’s eyes were sharp behind his frames, scanning the contents of Kaito's basket with amused curiosity.

"Care to catch up over a drink, Kaito? I know a new place that just opened down the street," Juho suggested, gesturing toward the exit.

"Not tonight," Kaito said, already moving to the vegetable aisle. "I have a prior commitment."

Juho followed, his interest clearly piqued. He watched Kaito pick out the best stalks of scallions with a level of scrutiny he usually reserved for clinical patient notes. 

"A prior commitment? I’ve known you for years, and you’ve never once set foot in a grocery store after six, let alone acted like a chef. Someone special?"

Kaito’s grip on the basket tightened, though his expression remained unreadable. "It's a client. He’s going through a... rough patch. If I don't intervene, he’s going to mentally dismantle himself by tomorrow morning."

Juho raised an eyebrow. "A client? You’re buying dinner and dessert for a patient? That’s not just intervention, Kaito... that’s dangerously close to crossing the professional line. Who is this client? Is it that Haru person you mentioned a few weeks ago?"

"Yes, it’s Haru," Kaito replied, his voice clipped.

"Didn't recognize him," Juho mused. "But honestly, why him? Why go to this extent? You’ve got a caseload full of people with crises, but I’ve never seen you cook for any of them."

Kaito paused. He stood in the middle of the aisle, the hum of the freezer units suddenly feeling very loud. He looked down at the two cups of custard in his basket. Why was he doing this? He could have just called. He could have left a list of resources. But the thought of Haru alone, staring at the dark walls of his apartment, had felt like a physical itch beneath his skin that he couldn't leave unaddressed.

He brushed the question off with a practiced, cool shrug. "He just needs a bit of stability. I’m happy to help a colleague or anyone, really— to get back on their feet. It’s what we do, isn't it?"

Juho didn't look convinced, but he let it slide, reaching past Kaito to grab his own pudding cup. "Whatever you say. You know, you look like you need back-up for a dinner for two anyway. I’m tagging along."

Kaito glanced at Juho, who was wearing an expression of blatant, unbothered audacity. He could have refused, he could have cited ethics, boundaries, or his own preference for solitude—but maybe an extra pair of hands, and a voice that wasn't just his own, would make the atmosphere in Haru’s apartment less heavy.

"Fine," Kaito said, turning toward the register. "But you’re doing the dishes."

"Deal," Juho grinned.

As they walked to the checkout, Kaito checked his phone. Still no messages. He hoped that by the time they arrived, the steam of tomato and eggs would do what he couldn't—pull Haru back from the edge of his own isolation.

The hot water had been a temporary salvation. The layer of grime and stagnant exhaustion had been properly washed away, leaving Haru feeling exposed and raw, yet slightly more grounded. He had pulled on a simple cotton t-shirt and loose trousers, his hair still slightly damp, dripping onto his shoulders as he sat at the kitchen table.

He waited in the silence, his hands folded in his lap, feeling a strange, hollowed-out peace. He had expected Kaito’s knock, and mentally prepared for the inevitable lecture on nutrition or the quiet, firm insistence on his well-being.

When the knocking finally echoed through the apartment, it was sharper than he anticipated. Haru stood up, his legs feeling a little unsteady, and walked to the door. He gripped the handle, took a breath, and pulled it open.

"I’m ready, Kaito-," he began, his voice still a little raspy, but he stopped mid-sentence.

Standing in the hallway was Kaito, carrying a grocery bag, but he wasn't alone. Beside him stood a man Haru didn't recognize—tall, with an air of relaxed, observant intelligence and a plastic bag of his own containing two cups of custard.

Haru’s eyes widened slightly, his pulse jumping in a sudden, defensive spike of social anxiety. He looked at Kaito, confused, his posture tightening. "Kaito? Who is..."

"Haru," Kaito said, not offering an immediate apology, but his eyes were searching Haru’s face, checking his state of mind. He stepped inside, gesturing for the stranger to follow. "This is Juho. He’s a friend of mine, a colleague. He insisted on helping with the cooking."

Juho gave a small, friendly wave, his smile easy and unforced. "I hope you don't mind the intrusion. Kaito mentioned you needed a dinner that didn't come out of a freezer, and I’m a surprisingly decent sous-chef."

Haru felt a flicker of panic. He wasn't dressed for company, and his apartment felt like a monument to his recent collapse. He looked at Kaito, searching for a reason why he had brought an audience to such a vulnerable moment.

Kaito moved past him toward the kitchen, his voice calm and unbothered. "I figured you could use a distraction. And Juho promised to handle the cleanup."

Kaito began unpacking the bags—the bright, vibrant red of the tomatoes, the fresh eggs, the scallions—and for a second, the mundane reality of groceries began to crowd out the suffocating weight of the past forty-eight hours.

"Kitchen’s yours, Haru," Kaito added, glancing back over his shoulder. "But you’re sitting down. Juho and I will handle this."

Haru hovered by the door, feeling like an outsider in his own home. He watched as the two men moved around his kitchen—Kaito with his precise, measured movements, and Juho with a light, breezy efficiency that seemed to fill the quiet room with a strange, new energy.

It was jarring. It was unexpected. And as the smell of fresh food began to replace the stale air of the apartment, Haru found that he couldn't quite find the strength to protest. He retreated to the kitchen table, watching as they started to work.

After a while, the kitchen atmosphere, which had been humming with the rhythmic thwack-thwack of the knife against the cutting board, shattered into sudden, sharp chaos.

"Dammit," Kaito hissed, dropping the knife.

He clutched his left hand, a thin, bright line of red blooming across the pad of his index finger. Before he could even pull his hand back, Juho—reflexive and perhaps a bit too dramatic, grab Kaito’s wrist. He brought the finger to his mouth, intent on stemming the flow.

"Juho, stop!" Kaito jerked his hand away, his face contorting in annoyance. "It’s covered in tomato acid, you idiot. That’s going to sting ten times worse than the cut itself. Don't be a caveman."

"I was trying to be helpful!" Juho retorted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're bleeding all over the prep station!"

"It's just a nick, let go of—"

"Quiet."

The voice wasn't loud, but it possessed an immediate, practiced authority that made both men freeze.

Haru had moved from the table to the counter. His movements were quick and precise. He nudged Juho aside with a firm hip-check and took Kaito’s wrist.

Kaito’s protest died in his throat as Haru m ran the finger under the cold tap, washing away the sting of the acidity. Haru reached for the small, white cabinet above the sink—his medical kit. With practiced movements, he dried the skin, applied a thin layer of antiseptic, and prepared to seal it.

He opened his personal stash of bandages. It was an eclectic, almost absurd collection: some were standard tan, others were bright neon, and a few were adorned with cartoon animals or silly, colorful patterns.

Haru went for the plain, professional tan one, his expression neutral.

"Wait," Kaito said, his voice unusually soft. He pointed to the sheet of bandages. "The one with the little astronaut bears."

Haru paused, looking up at him with a deadpan stare. "Kaito, this is a kitchen-grade cut. A standard bandage is more than enough. The bears are... excessive."

"I like the bears," Kaito insisted, his dark eyes flickering with a stubborn glint that made him look younger, almost defiant.

Juho let out a loud, incredulous laugh from the corner of the kitchen. "Hah-! Are you joking? The brilliant, calm and professional Kaito is demanding a bear-themed bandage?"

Haru’s lip twitched—a ghost of a smile he hadn't worn in days. He looked back at Kaito, who was stubbornly refusing to look at Juho, his ears turning a faint shade of pink and slightly pouting. "tch..."

With a soft sigh that sounded more like a release of tension than annoyance, Haru peeled off the astronaut bear bandage. He wrapped it carefully around Kaito’s finger, the tiny cartoon characters looking ridiculous against the professional setting of Kaito.

"There,..." Haru said, tucking the stray tab of the adhesive. "Don't get tomato juice on the bear."

Kaito looked at his finger, the corner of his mouth quirked upward. "I’ll try to be careful."

"Now," Haru said, turning back to the counter and picking up the knife with a grace that silenced the room. "Move. I’ll finish the tomatoes. You two are a safety hazard."

Juho stepping back to let Haru take over.