The late afternoon sun slanted through the half-open balcony door, painting the wooden floor in warm gold. Yuta Okkotsu stood in the kitchen wearing nothing but an oversized black apron that said "Kiss the Cook" — a gag gift from Panda that Maki had refused to let him throw away.
He was humming, stirring a pot of curry that smelled like heaven, when the front door clicked open.
"Oi. I'm home."
Maki's voice was low, a little tired, but the second she saw him she stopped dead in the genkan, one boot still half-off. Her sharp green eyes dragged slowly from his bare shoulders down to the apron strings tied in a neat bow at the small of his back, then lower to the way the fabric barely covered the top of his thighs.
Yuta felt his face heat instantly. "W-welcome back! I thought… you said you'd be late because of that council meeting, so I figured I'd—"
"Meeting got cancelled." Maki kicked both boots off, not bothering with the shoe rack, and stalked forward like a predator who'd just spotted easy prey. "You're wearing that on purpose, aren't you?"
"It's the only clean apron!" Yuta protested, but his voice cracked at the end because Maki had already circled behind him, hands sliding around his waist, palms flat against the thin fabric right over his stomach.
Her breath brushed the shell of his ear. "Liar. You like when I stare."
She wasn't wrong.
Maki was still in her mission clothes — tight black compression shirt stretched across her toned shoulders, pants riding low on her hips. The contrast was lethal: her hard, battle-scarred body pressed against his softer one, the faint scent of sweat and gunpowder mixing with the curry steam. Yuta's fingers tightened on the wooden spoon.
"Maki… the curry's gonna burn…"
"Let it." One of her hands dipped lower, fingertips tracing the edge of the apron where it met skin. "You've been home all day playing house while I was out dealing with idiots who still think the Zenin name means something. Least you can do is give me a proper welcome."
Yuta swallowed hard. He turned in her arms — or tried to — but Maki's grip stayed firm, keeping him facing the stove so she could press herself fully against his back. He could feel every inch of her: the firm press of her chest, the way her abs flexed when she chuckled.
"Rika's gonna tease me again if she shows up right now," he mumbled.
"Good. Let her watch. Maybe she'll finally admit I'm the one who actually takes care of you."
Yuta's laugh came out shaky. "You're the worst."
"You love it." Maki's teeth grazed the side of his neck, not quite a bite but definitely a promise. "Say it."
"I… I love it," he whispered, cheeks burning hotter than the stove. His hands left the spoon and reached back to tangle in her short hair, pulling her closer even as he pretended to resist. "I love you, you big idiot."
Maki's smirk softened for half a second — the rare, private smile she only ever gave him — before she spun him around properly and hoisted him up onto the kitchen counter in one smooth motion like he weighed nothing. The apron rode up dangerously high. Curry forgotten, the spoon clattered into the pot.
"Three years," she murmured, slotting herself between his knees, hands sliding up his bare thighs. "Three years since the world stopped ending, and you still blush like it's our first date every time I touch you. How the hell are you this cute and this dangerous at the same time?"
Yuta leaned in, forehead resting against hers. "Because you make me feel safe enough to be cute… and you're the only one strong enough to handle the dangerous part if it ever comes back."
For a moment the teasing dropped. Maki's calloused thumb brushed his cheek, eyes serious.
"Nothing's coming back," she said quietly. "Not while I'm here. Not while you're mine."
Then she kissed him — slow at first, then deeper, the kind of kiss that tasted like curry spices and relief and three years of choosing each other every single day. Yuta melted into it, arms looping around her neck, legs wrapping around her waist without thinking. The apron strings came untied somewhere in the middle; neither of them cared.
Outside, Tokyo hummed with normal life — salarymen, students, the distant sound of trains. Inside, the only curse left in the apartment was the way Maki's hands kept wandering and the way Yuta kept letting her.
The curry eventually did burn.
They ordered takeout later.
Yuta pulled back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes half-lidded.
"Maki… next time I'm wearing the apron, you have to wear nothing."
Maki's grin was all teeth.
"Deal. But only if you cook in it first."