Kamimoto Kotone was always moving one way or another.
Throughout the day and sometimes into the late hours of the night, she was always busy doing something especially when her job was a cook. If you found her, she could be taking on orders, cooking said orders, and serving them. Even then, her job wasn’t done.
After the last plate was handed over the counter and the final customer disappeared through the door with a polite nod, there were still pans to scrub. Counters to wipe. Oil to filter. The floor, always somehow sticky, needed mopping. And then, maybe then, she’d sit. Sometimes. If her legs didn’t protest too loudly.
The chicken katsu place she worked at was small, wedged between a laundromat and a shuttered shoe repair shop. It smelled of soy sauce and vinegar and fried things that lingered in your clothes no matter how briefly you stepped inside. Locals loved it. Office workers stopped by. College students ordered takeout in packs. But no one stayed past eleven.
No one except him.
(YN) wasn’t the loudest customer, or the messiest, or even the most demanding.
He was just the latest.
Every night, like clockwork, the doorbell chimed at 11:55 PM, five minutes before close. She never understood how he always timed it so perfectly, like he was lurking around the corner waiting for the lights to dim before swooping in.
She always dreaded working deep into the night, always hated when the dinner rush took longer than expected since she knew there was going to be that one last customer she had to serve.
Ding!
Of course.
Kotone didn’t turn around. She didn’t have to.
The clink of dress shoes. The soft grunt of someone settling into the stool by the counter. The slight sigh, like he was finally off his feet after a long day—not that she cared.
“Sorry, I don’t serve anyone five minutes before midnight,” she said, flatly.
“Yet you still took my order last night,” came the familiar voice. Calm. Friendly. Like they were old friends.
They weren’t.
She turned just enough to shoot him a withering look over her shoulder. He was already in his usual seat, elbow resting on the counter, tie loosened, blazer draped neatly on the stool beside him like he owned the place.
“Yeah, well,” she muttered, “I was in a good mood. Don’t expect it to happen again.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
That was the thing about him. He never flinched. Never rose to her bait. Just sat there, smiling, like he thought she was funny. Like he enjoyed being hated.
“You want the usual?” she asked, already pulling out the panko and chicken breast.
He nodded, folding his hands on the counter like a well-mannered schoolboy. “Extra sauce, please.”
“You are so specific for someone who eats like a stray cat.”
“I like what I like.”
Kotone huffed and turned back to the fryer. The oil hadn’t even cooled yet. Of course it hadn’t. It knew he was coming, just like she did. It was muscle memory at this point—coat, dip, bread, drop into the fryer. She didn’t even have to think about it anymore.
She hated that.
And she hated how he always looked so damn relaxed in her shop, like it was his personal hideaway from the world. Like this tiny, grease-slicked chicken joint at the edge of town was something he got to enjoy, not something she had to survive.
“You ever consider eating dinner at, I don’t know, a normal hour?” she asked as the katsu sizzled.
“Too busy.”
“You’re a salaryman, not the Prime Minister.”
“Still busy.”
She glanced back at him. He looked tired tonight. Not the usual kind, either—not just paperwork-tired or commuting-tired. There was a stiffness to his posture, a dullness in his eyes he didn’t usually carry.
It annoyed her more than it should have.
“You ever consider letting someone else cook for once?” she said, flipping the cutlet.
He smiled. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
She wanted to smack him.
Instead, she plated the dish in silence. Hot rice, crisp golden cutlet, some sliced up lettuce, double sauce. She didn’t hand it to him—just slid it across the counter like she was trying to push him out with it.
He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. Then said, as if it were the first time:
“It’s really good.”
Kotone blinked. “What?”
“Your food. It’s the best I’ve had.”
She stared at him, unamused. “Flattery’s not going to get you a discount.”
He laughed softly. “Wasn’t trying to.”
He didn’t say anything else after that. Just kept eating, slow and quiet, like he wasn’t in a rush. Like he actually liked being there.
She hated that too.
The night continued how it always did. He ate in silence, and she finally got around to cleaning the kitchen.
Kotone wiped down the fryer with practiced precision, her back to him, letting the sound of chopsticks and soft chewing blend into the clinks and scrapes of closing time. She scrubbed harder than necessary, maybe hoping the sound would drown out his presence. It didn’t.
He never lingered longer than needed. Never overstayed. But he never rushed either. And for some reason, that bothered her too.
When she turned back to check if he was finished, she found the plate empty, his tray pushed neatly to the side. He had already stacked the used dishes. Napkin folded. Cup drained.
But what caught her eye wasn’t the tray.
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