In the Bread We Make

POV: Haruka

The first time Kaito arrived home with a bag of flour, Haruka raised an eyebrow.

"We're out of money," she said, waving their remaining two coins on the plate of daily change.

Kaito merely grinned. "I'm investing. Trust me."

She had no concept what kind of investment involved kneading dough at midnight, but there was something about the way his eyes flickered—bright, expectant, alive—that compelled her to set the coins aside and roll up her sleeves.

That night, the apartment smelled of yeast and butter. Laughter echoed between the thin walls as Haruka tried (and failed) to knead properly, her hands awkward and sticky. Kaito stood behind her, guiding her fingers through the rhythm.

"Like this," he murmured, his voice close. "Don't fight the dough. Let it breathe."

"I'm not fighting it. It's fighting me," she muttered, wiping flour on her cheek.

They were dusted with white powder and heat before the dough rose in a bowl covered with a towel. It wasn't much—a batch of plain stuffed buns. But when they pulled them out of the oven, golden and fluffy, Haruka almost sobbed.

She hadn't smelled anything that reminded her of home in years.

Except. maybe now this could be home.

The idea started as a joke.

Kaito's former acquaintance, who owned a small neighborhood bakery, had let him work part-time during the early mornings, shaping dough and cleaning trays. One evening, Kaito posted a photo of their homemade buns on his previous social media platform with the following caption:

"Not perfect, but full of love. Thinking of opening pre-orders soon? ????"

They didn't have lofty expectations.

Maybe a few likes. Maybe a couple of comments.

But in sixty minutes, his email inbox was brimming.

"Are you kidding?"

"Can I order three?"

"My grandma read your ad and will not let me hear the end of it."

"Do you ship to Nakano?"

Haruka's mouth fell open in front of the screen. "Are these actual people?"

Kaito smiled, scrolling. "Guess people are hungry for something beyond food."

They started small.

Twelve boxes for the first weekend. Haruka woke up at 4 a.m. to shape the buns. Some were red bean-filled, some creamy custard, and a few—Kaito's favorite—savory curry.

Kaito worked on the oven and the packaging.

Haruka did the labels.

She drew miniature smiling bread faces on each box and wrote little notes underneath:

"Baked with sleepy hands and hopeful hearts."

"May your day be as soft as this bun."

"Thanks for believing in our silly little dream."

There were photographs. One woman explained that her son would only consume the "bread with faces." Another explained that the red bean bun reminded her of her mother, who every winter used to bake before she passed away.

Haruka read one of those twice.

"This is more than bread," she whispered.

Kaito, washing a mixing bowl, looked over. "Yeah?"

"It's. a feeling. Like a warm room on a cold night."

He didn't answer, but the way he was looking at her—like she'd just given him the world—said it all.

They kept baking.

Orders picked up, slowly. Kaito's friend permitted them to use the bakery kitchen on Sundays when the store was closed. They delivered boxes by hand or bicycle. There were times when it was exhausting. Haruka's palms hurt. Kaito burned his finger twice.

But with every time the customer's smile or the thank-you note came through, the exhaustion vanished.

And in the midst of flour and laughter, Haruka began changing.

She still had no idea what the future looked like. Still healing. But she no longer woke with fear pressing on her chest. No longer flinched at her face.

One day, while she was writing another label, she found herself humming. Not a tune she recognized. Just something cheerful and warm.

Kaito looked up from the dough. "You're happy."

She regarded him. "Yeah. I suppose so."

By week six, a customer came by and inquired if she could come to see them in person.

"I must say thank you," she said to them. "This is the only food my daughter will eat without tears."

And so they stood outside the bakery, fingers chilled, hearts racing.

The woman came in with a little girl hiding behind her skirt. She was shy and maybe seven or eight years old. Kaito knelt and gave her a bun and a face of a cat drawn onto it.

She took it delicately. And then, without a word, she smiled.

A genuine, shining, full-tooth smile.

And Haruka's heart spread like a warm bread.

They sat on their apartment balcony one evening, the final bun of the day to be divided.

Haruka stared up at the sky. City lights overwhelmed all but the occasional star, but she could see one. Far away. Flickering. But there.

"Can you even believe this could be something real?" she told him.

Kaito stared at her, quiet for a moment. "It already is."

She turned to him.

"I believed I had to shine in a glass castle. That success was prestige, accolades, clapping."

"And now?"

She smiled.

"Now I simply wish to shine here. In this room. With our bread. With you."

He rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled napkin—one of her old label notes.

He read it aloud, softly:

"Not perfect, but full of love."

And then he pushed it into her hand and said, "That's us."