The sun had dipped low, casting amber-colored light through the back windows of the bakery. The last batch of melon bread had been sold. Nenek had already retired to sleep in the living quarters, and the soft ringing of utensils was the only sound echoing in the kitchen.
Haruka cinched her apron slightly and glanced over the flour-covered countertops. "Should we start cleaning?"
Kaito reached his arms up overhead with a little grunt. "Only if you promise not to mop at my feet again."
"That was once," she said, eye-rolling.
"You mention that like once wasn't traumatic."
She smirked, pulled out a cloth, and began to wipe down the counter. Kaito jumped in on it, grabbing the broom and sweeping around the spilled flour.
It was easy—almost as if the fatigue of the day didn't weigh so heavily when they were like this. In sync together. Unspoken, quiet cooperation with soft, barely there smiles shared each other between tasks.
Haruka leaned in to dust the surface of the prep table, her sleeve brushing against an open bag of flour.
She didn't notice.
Kaito did.
A streak of white ran along her forearm.
He blinked at it, then smiled.
"Hey, Haruka-chan."
She glanced up. "Hm?"
"You've got a little…" He motioned vaguely, then flicked a small puff of flour in her direction.
It landed lightly on her cheek.
She blinked, stunned.
"You didn't," she said, voice flat.
"I did."
"You didn't."
He only grinned wider.
Haruka grabbed a handful of flour from the table and tossed it.
She missed.
The dust cloud floated past him like a fog of defeat.
"That was a warning shot?" Kaito asked, stepping back theatrically. "Impressive."
"Oh, you're asking for it."
This time, she aimed—and nailed his shoulder.
Kaito gasped. "Haruka-chan! This is war."
Laughter erupted between the flying puffs of flour. The bakery's kitchen—usually neat and warm and scented with pastries—was now a battlefield of white specks and poorly aimed throws. They ducked behind counters, peeked around flour bins, and launched gentle handfuls like two overgrown kids.
And then, mid-throw, mid-laugh, Haruka slipped.
She fell partially, at best, and caught herself awkwardly on the counter with a shocked yelp.
Kaito crossed the distance in the blink of an eye. "You alright?"
She glared at him, face covered in flour smudges, eyes wide with shock, and laughed. Genuine laughter. Not the forced smile she used when speaking to customers or the half-exasperated huff she'd used earlier.
This was different from the rest. This was boisterous, from the chest, the kind that furrowed her eyes and shook her shoulders. The kind that took her by surprise.
Kaito remained frozen for a moment, caught between worry and mesmerization.
He had never heard her laugh like that.
Not just soft or small, but open. Alive.
He stood there stunned, seeing how her eyes gleamed with it, the commotion that filled the entire space. It sounded in the powder-filled air and appeared to put the wind in him out.
She only finally noticed his quiet.
"Something?" she repeated, cheeks still flushed from euphoria.
Kaito grinned and shook his head, his lips trying on a small, soft smile. "Nothing. Just. Flour must have reached your head."
She squinted. "You were staring."
"I was processing."
"Processing what?"
Kaito scrubbed the back of his neck. "That I might've just seen your final form."
Haruka smiled again—quietly this time, but still brightly.
They stood there amidst the flour-dusted haze of the kitchen, both panting for different reasons.
"I haven't laughed like that in ages," Haruka confessed, voice near shy.
He looked at her gently. "I could tell."
She looked down at her fingers, creating a small whirl into the flour-dusted counter. "It felt nice."
Kaito rummaged through his apron pocket, searching for something.
Haruka rested her head. "What now?"
He removed a folded sticky note and gave it to her.
She unfolded it.
"You laughed today. I hope tomorrow, you do it again."
Her chest stuttered a beat.
"You write these ahead of time?" she asked.
He shrugged, a bit sheepish. "Sometimes I just… get hopeful."
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she grabbed a fresh towel and gently swept flour off his cheek. "Well, maybe your hope's paying off."
Kaito stiffened at her touch, eyes crossing hers.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Then she coughed and went to leave. "We should clean up. Before your grandmother wakes and thinks a storm blew through."
"Right," he said, now smiling lightly. "A very floury storm."
They labored in synchrony once more, but something had changed—something less than laughter, but as true.
Among the flour dust and crumbs scattered on the floor, something unspoken had started to emerge.