A Warm Nap Behind the Counter

The day started quietly at the bakery, the early morning hum of ovens and soft rustle of paper bags setting the rhythm. Natsumi had stepped out to run errands, leaving Haruka to manage the store for a few hours. It wasn't unusual anymore—Haruka had become more comfortable handling the counter, arranging the displays, and speaking with customers, even if only in short, polite exchanges.

By mid-morning, a lull settled. The air was warm with the scent of freshly baked melon bread and sakura mochi buns. Haruka had just finished restocking the trays with a new batch when she realized the quietness wasn't just from a lack of customers—it was the kind of silence that made your body remember it was tired.

She sat down behind the counter, intending only to rest her eyes for a second. Just a second.

But the warmth, the softness of the hum in the background, the sweetness still lingering in the air—it lulled her under, into sleep.

Kaito returned about fifteen minutes later, helmet tucked under one arm, hair slightly tousled from the wind. He stepped into the bakery, expecting to hear the usual chime of the bell and Haruka's quiet, "Welcome."

Instead, silence.

Then he spotted her—curled slightly, head resting against her arm, behind the counter. A thin notebook still in her lap. One of her sleeves was slightly rolled up from earlier, revealing pale skin and the faintest of old scars on her wrist. Kaito paused. Not out of judgment, but from the weight of what that silent mark might have once meant.

He moved slowly, gently placing his jacket over her shoulders. The fabric dipped over her back like a soft shield. Haruka stirred, murmured something incomprehensible, but didn't wake.

Kaito sat down beside the counter, cross-legged, keeping his voice silent and his presence quiet. For the first time, he didn't feel the need to say or do anything. He just watched her breathe.

She looked different like this—not guarded, not tense. Just… human. Like someone who was beginning to let the world see parts of her she'd hidden for too long.

His eyes drifted back to her wrist.

Whatever had left those marks—whether a moment, a season, or a long stretch of darkness—wasn't all she was. Not anymore.

He glanced at the bakery shelves, the handwritten labels she'd rewritten with neater penmanship, the newly folded linen towels, the sticky note from that morning still tucked beneath the cash register.

"You're safe here now," he whispered, almost to himself.

And as the minutes passed, the warmth of the oven and the soft ticking of the wall clock cradled them both in a rare kind of peace.

When Haruka finally stirred, eyes blinking slowly, she found a jacket over her shoulders and a warmth by her side.

Kaito looked up, offered a soft smile, and simply said, "Welcome back."

She didn't ask how long she'd been asleep.

She just nodded, eyes heavy with something unspoken.

And for that moment, nothing else needed to be said.