STRAY

You’re already closed when Minji comes in, carrying the weight of her week with her.

You can feel it before she’s even through the door—cap pulled low, ponytail through the back, facemask on, jacket zipped all the way up. The quiet drag of her steps. Moving like she hasn’t been allowed to stop all day.

And it’s ritual by now—she finds things where they always are—the bakery, the cat on his shelf, you behind the counter—but it’s the smell of it that hits her first. Wafting over to her—warm cinnamon, browned butter, the oven cooling.

Something in her gives. Not much. But enough.

Minji doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. That’s how this always starts.

You’ve already poured the tea. Had it steeping for twenty minutes now, even though it’s been longer since you had the last customer, but she’ll never ask, and you’ll never explain, and you’ve already slid it to her spot before she’s even set her bag down.

Her phone goes next on the counter, face down, as far from her as possible—and this is what marks the boundary. Both hands wrap around the mug—honey, citrus, something traditional today—and she closes her eyes, and you watch her; look at her because you can’t help it, because she does this every time and every time it does a little more to you.

She opens her eyes.

You look at the counter.

Mura, who’s been on the shelf for most of his day like always, happy to observe his kingdom from up high, jumps down as soon as she takes that first sip. Something he does for no one else—walks the length of the counter, over to her, and bumps his small white head against her hand.

She exhales. Properly, this time.

Smiles when Mura rolls onto his back, nuzzling himself against her, purring within moments of mere contact.

This cat has not, in the years you have cohabited, purred for you once.

You rescued him out from the alley behind your store, nursed him back to full health, paid his vet bills, stayed with him through an ear infection and he held onto your sleeve and you thought—we’re bonded for life.

It means nothing to him. He purrs for her like a motor.

He is a con artist and a liar and she is his greatest achievement.

(Mura is the name she gave him. The day you met her, she followed him inside, spent a full minute petting him before she finally asked:

“What’s his name?”

“Murakami,” you answered.

She looked at the cat. Then, for the first time, looked at you.

“Ah,” she said. “So, you’re single then.”

You tried to think of something that wouldn’t sound like an overreaction. “I like his writing.”

“Sure.”

She started calling him Mura that same afternoon—mentioning offhand that Murakami was too much name for one small cat, it was pretentious, and you’d likely die alone if you kept at it.

It’s been Mura ever since—to her, to the regulars who followed her lead without knowing why, and eventually, embarrassingly, to you.

You still maintain the full name is correct.

It’s the name on his pet insurance, anyway.)

“Good evening, Mura,” she says to the cat.

He rumbles.

“Hi,” you say, from behind the counter.

“Hi,” she says, to you, second.

You’ve got Hozier spinning, soft and going nowhere in particular, and Minji’s settled on the stool, head tilted, listening quietly.

Until, “You really like this one, don’t you?”

“It holds up.”

“It holds up or it’s the only record I’ve given to you that’s by a man?”

You turn to your shelf—Mura’s shelf—considering your collection, and try to identify an appropriate counter-argument. “I have other records I like.”

“You have eight. All incredible female songwriters. I know because I gave you each one,” she retorts, and you remember the early argument—the jazz you had on, even though you don’t like jazz, but it seemed to feel thematically appropriate with the Murakami and the cat of it all.

It had her bringing over a record player, and then a record, and then another, each silently pushed across the counter like they were being returned to you.

“Put on Phoebe Bridgers.”

“Really?” You raise an eyebrow. “I mean she’s good, but it gets to a point—”

“Put it on. You like it. You told me it moved you when you listened to it. Brought you to tears.”

“I regret telling you I’ve ever had feelings at all.”

“And yet you do,” Minji answers, and you go to pick Punisher off the shelf, and switch out the records.

The opening track crackles and you refill her mug. It doesn’t take long—she tips her chin towards the speaker. Goes somewhere else. You let her.

“I want it known,” you say, going back to the kitchen. “I didn’t cry.”

She lifts her head. Her lips do their thing. “I know.”

“When I listened to it on my own. No tears. I want that on the record.”

“It’s on the record.”

“And if I did it’s because Phoebe Bridgers is an emotional terrorist and closed out the album with I Know This is the End and what the fuck is up with that because—”

“It’s okay.”

“I wasn’t—”

“It hit you deep,” Minji says simply. “That’s all. That’s allowed.”

You say nothing. You’re already deep in the kitchen. Minji goes back to Mura.

She’s on her third mug when you’re leaning over the counter, settling back into debates, picking up from where you left off.

“Lost in Translation,” you say, having joined her and Mura with your own mug.

Minji doesn’t look up from Mura. “What about it?”

“You made me watch every Sofia Coppola movie and asked me what my favourite is,” you explain to her, politely. “Lost in Translation. That’s my favourite.”

Minji rolls her eyes at your answer. “Of course it is. You’re a dude.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask. “I’m a dude so I can’t like the movie about a dude? That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Oh, I think it’s very fair. Lonely man in a big city. Can’t connect, but incredibly charming about it.” She finally looks up. “Very you.”

You smile at that. “So you think I’m charming?”

“If that’s the part that matters to you.”

“Well,” you shrug, taking your wins where you can get them. “It’s always nice to be reminded.”

She doesn’t answer that. Turns her mug in both hands. There’s colour on her cheeks that wasn’t there before, and you’re kind enough to pretend otherwise.

“You still haven’t watched Edge of Tomorrow.”

She blinks. “Why would I watch Edge of Tomorrow?”

“Because I’ve watched every movie you’ve told me to, and because it’s the greatest movie ever made.”

“It’s a Tom Cruise film.”

“It’s the greatest movie ever made, Minji,” you insist. “Should win Best Movie, like every year.”

“That doesn’t even make sense—”

“He punches an alien in the face. Multiple times. Because he keeps coming back to life. Emily Blunt does the whole abs thing. You’d love it.”

“I would not love it.”

“You texted me at midnight after watching The Worst Person in the World and said it made you want to be a better person.”

“That’s a different—”

“It’s literally called The Worst Person in the World.”

“That film is about the expectations and performance of womanhood and the commodification of creativity and—”

“Cruise,” you say, with an air of reverence. “Greatest actor. Greatest movie. Watch it.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Not even if I keep you here and make you watch it with me?”

Minji’s eyes find yours. Something shifts—that private almost-smile she doesn’t quite let happen—and you’re not sure you’d survive it if she did—and she picks up her mug. “That might be nice.”

You let the words land. “Then I guess I’d have to arrange it.”

The two of you sit with it a moment. Mura makes a sound—a yawn that somehow sounds like a declaration, a hurry up and get to the point—and it pulls your attention to your watch, and then to the plate you’ve had sitting at the end of the counter since six, and you remember.

It’s that time.

“Close your eyes,” you tell her.

She sighs, knowing what’s coming next, caught between not this again and I’ve been waiting for you to ask this whole time.

Minji closes her eyes.

“Taste test.”

You set the plate in front of her.

It’s intricate. You’ve been up since four working on it, dough that’s been folded and rested and folded again and again until it has layers to it; the outside all crunch and caramel, the kind of creation that takes actual work and time and care to get right.

But it looks like what it is: a specific something made for a specific person.

She’d know that before she even tasted it.

Mura, who never has shown an interest in anything you’ve baked, aside from occasionally swatting whatever you’re working on off the counter to prove his eternal dominance, leans in from his spot at her elbow, as if he has opinions.

Minji finds it with her fingers. Picks it up. Takes a bite.

You watch her face change.

Nothing dramatic, never dramatic, but it moves her. Just—a door swinging open a fraction more than it usually does, and she goes silent.

You study her, because her eyes are still closed, and you’ll take what you can get.

The small line between her brows. Her lips pressing together, holding, just before she speaks.

“Adzuki,” she realises. “Red bean.”

“Yeah.”

She breathes it in. Takes another bite. Stays in it.

“It’s—” she pauses, savouring another taste, and the next. “Delicious. It’s just red bean but—”

“The dough isn’t simple. But the filling is. That’s the point.”

She sets it down. “My grandma.”

Minji’s not looking at anything in the room anymore.

“She used to make these cakes when I was a kid. If I was having a bad day, or I was sick, or I just needed it. Little red bean buns. I’d run straight past her to the kitchen as soon as I smelled it. She always had them waiting and her whole house just smelled like—” Minji stops herself. “It smelled just like this.”

Her fingers turn it over.

“I told you that.”

“I know,” you say. “I’ve been working on it for a while. Getting the lamination right. Making sure the filling stays. There’s nothing else but the adzuki.”

“How long?”

“Long enough that it’s finally right.”

Minji leans in. Eyes holding your gaze. You hold hers back.

There aren’t any words.

Except, “It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“You’ve tasted a lot of things.”

“You’ve made me taste a lot of things.” There’s a pull at the corner of her mouth, and she smiles wide, genuine, beautiful, and yeah, you really might not survive this after all. “I’ve been used.”

You grin back. “Ruthlessly.”

Things wind down, as they need to.

Minji stays at the counter with her empty mug, chatting to you through the open kitchen door. Picking up wherever you’ve left things unfinished—the Coppola thing, this book she just read and she’ll leave behind for you, this thing she saw that she filed away and thought you should absolutely know about.

It all reaches you from the other room.

Outside, whatever the world’s doing with her name tonight—it’s not doing it in here.

You know what you are to her. What this is. The tea poured anticipating her arrival. Her records you’ve got spinning. Mura on his shelf.

The bakery that doesn’t want anything from her, except that she show up, and in turn it will always be here where she left it.

You’re alright with this.

This is enough.

You’re arranging the last tray of dough for tomorrow when her arms come around you from behind.

Forehead against your back, hands finding each other at your chest, warm and completely still.

You stay.

You don’t move and you don’t say anything, and maybe in this silence there’s a sound—small, caught, like a choke or a sniffle, swallowed before it can even begin—but you don’t hear it. You hear nothing at all.

And even if you did, it would be okay. She can fall apart here.

All that matters is that you stay. Stay and let her be.

Then, you turn around, and she’s already waiting, and you put your arms around her properly and she tucks herself against your shoulder and you hold her, let her bury herself in your apron, and let her make all the noises that she needs to, everything you choose not to hear.

Mura’s already in the kitchen, perching himself on his second home. Watching all of this with the serenity of a higher being; one who saw all this coming the afternoon he led her off the street and inside his palace, and has simply been waiting for his two favourite subjects to catch up.

He turns to you and begins, very quietly, to purr.