Yasuo didn't sleep a wink after that creepy text message. He spent the whole night jumping at every shadow, half-expecting a gang member to crash through the bakery window.
The next morning, Daisetsu showed up looking like he had crawled out of a storm. His jaw was set, his eyes were bloodshot, and he didn't even say "Ohayoo." He just grabbed a broom and started sweeping the flour with a violence that made Yasuo want to hide in the oven.
"Sensei—I mean, Daisetsu," Yasuo started, his voice trembling. "I got a text. A black car was outside..."
Daisetsu stopped sweeping. His knuckles were white on the broom handle. "I know," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibration. "I saw them. They're trying to use you to get to me. This is why you need to stay away from me, Yasuo."
"Stay away?" Yasuo felt a sharp sting in his chest. "You're the one who keeps showing up! You're the one who made a deal about a debt!"
Daisetsu didn't answer. He just went back to sweeping, ignoring Yasuo entirely. He was putting up that cold "Teacher Mask" again, acting like Yasuo was just some random kid. It sucked. It really, really sucked.
"Fine...ugh!" Yasuo huffed, slamming a tray of dough down. "If you're going to be a jerk, you can do it on an empty stomach. I'm going to lunch."
"Wait," Daisetsu snapped, dropping the broom. "You aren't going anywhere alone. I'm taking you."
"I don't need a bodyguard!"
"You're getting one," Daisetsu said, grabbing Yasuo's wrist. It wasn't the gentle grip from before; it was firm, a silent command. "Let's go."
He dragged Yasuo out the back door and down the street to a tiny, quiet donburi shop. It was the kind of place where old men sat in the corner reading newspapers—the last place a gang would look for them.
They sat in a narrow wooden booth at the very back. The air was thick with the smell of dashi and soy sauce. Yasuo sat across from Daisetsu, feeling like a sulky teenager. Daisetsu, meanwhile, looked completely out of place. He was too big for the booth, his broad shoulders practically touching both sides of the wood.
"Eat," Daisetsu ordered when their bowls of cold soba arrived.
"I'm not hungry," Yasuo grumbled, though his stomach immediately betrayed him by growling loudly.
Daisetsu didn't laugh. He just watched Yasuo with an intensity that made the baker feel like he was under a microscope.
"The debt," Daisetsu started, his voice softer now. "I wanted to repay it so I could walk away. But the more I see you... the more I see how you work..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to Yasuo's hands.
Yasuo was nervously playing with his chopsticks. "What about my hands?"
"You're always covered in something sweet," Daisetsu murmured. He reached across the table. For a second, Yasuo thought he was going to grab his hand, but instead, Daisetsu just touched the edge of the table, his fingers inches from Yasuo's. "It's a contrast to my life. My life is... metallic. Blood, iron, cold classrooms. You're all sugar and warmth."
The raw honesty in his voice made Yasuo's heart melt. The "Stoic Teacher" was gone, and the "Wounded Soul" was back.
"Is that why you were so mean this morning?" Yasuo whispered. "Because you're scared of your 'metallic' life touching mine?"
Daisetsu looked up, his dark eyes swirling with a mix of hunger and regret. "I'm a teacher, Yasuo. I'm supposed to protect people, not put them in danger. When I saw that car... I realized if anything happened to you because of me, I'd burn this whole city down."
The air in the booth suddenly felt electric. This wasn't just "bromance." This was a man confessing that his world now revolved around a shy baker.
Daisetsu leaned forward, the table creaking under his weight. He reached out and finally did it—he took Yasuo's hand. His palm was hot, his skin rough and calloused from years of training, but his grip was incredibly tender.
"Don't push me away," Daisetsu whispered.
Yasuo felt a jolt of pure fire go up his arm. He didn't pull away. He couldn't. He leaned in too, their faces now separated only by the small table and two bowls of soba.
"I'm not pushing," Yasuo said, his voice gaining a sudden, bold edge. "But you have to stop acting like a robot. I like the Daisetsu who eats my Anpan, not the one who sweeps like he's in a war."
Daisetsu's eyes fixed on Yasuo's lips. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a bread knife. In the dim light of the restaurant, the world outside—the gangs, the black cars, the school—felt miles away.
"You're very brave for such a small guy," Daisetsu teased, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over the back of Yasuo's hand.
"I'm not small!" Yasuo protested, but his face was already glowing a deep, beautiful pink.
Daisetsu chuckled, a low, vibration that Yasuo felt in his own chest. "You're perfect. And you're mine to protect. Remember that."
He squeezed Yasuo's hand one last time before letting go as the waitress approached with their check. The moment was broken, but the connection was stronger than ever.
As they walked back to the bakery, Daisetsu kept his hand firmly on the small of Yasuo's back. It was a subtle, possessive gesture, a way of "marking" him without saying a word. Yasuo felt like he was walking on air, even if his heart was still racing from the danger.
But as they reached the back alley of Mayonaka's Sweets, they found something waiting for them.
Taped to the bakery's back door was a single, white envelope. There was no name on it, just a crude drawing of a broken bread roll.
Inside was a photo. It was a picture of Yasuo, taken through the bakery window just an hour ago, while he was laughing at a joke Grandma had made.
Across the bottom, written in red marker, were three words that made Daisetsu's face go deathly pale:
"SWEET BUT FRAGILE."
Daisetsu crumpled the photo in his fist, his eyes turning into shards of ice. "They were here while we were at lunch," he hissed. "They're not just watching anymore. They're touching our home."