At the dining table, The table overflowed with warmth and food, enough to make the whole house smell like a celebration.
Soho glanced toward the far end, her voice firm but not unkind.
"Renji, put down the phone."
There was a pause—a silent protest flashing in the boy's eyes—but in the end, he obeyed.
With a sullen grunt, he placed the device face down beside his plate, shoulders tight.
"Thank you," Soho said, already turning back to the table, not bothering to check if he muttered anything under his breath. She knew he did.
Everyone sat together, plates and bowls arranged in colorful clusters.
Once Aoki gave a small, thankful nod, they all bowed their heads briefly.
"Let's say grace," Tsuki whispered gently.
They murmured together in quiet gratitude, the soft cadence of their voices brushing against the golden hush of evening.
Then, like a signal had been fired, the chopsticks snapped into motion.
The meal was a feast, clearly made with care and expertise. Ahem, something that couldn't have happen had Aoki entered the kitchen.
Tender pork belly glazed in a sweet soy reduction.
Sautéed mushrooms with garlic and scallions, their fragrance deep and earthy.
Lightly seared tofu topped with crisped shallots.
Shrimp fried in a delicate tempura batter, golden and crackling.
Pickled radish and lotus root slices.
And in the middle, a steaming clay pot of rice, its edges crisped from the stove.
"Gobble it down, sweetheart," Tsuki said, grinning as she dropped a few more shrimp into Venzel's bowl with her chopsticks.
Venzel blinked. "You're trying to fatten me up now?"
"Of course," Tsuki replied with mock seriousness. "Kana deserves someone who can carry her during a fire."
Ryu snorted into his tea. Aoki choked on his rice.
While Soho didn't even blink. "I like that logic."
Across the table, Renji ate without speaking, still clearly annoyed, but at least he wasn't glaring anymore.
The clatter of utensils and easy laughter filled the room.
Uncle Ryu leaned back in his chair,"By the way… who is this Kana?"
Tsuki smiled. "She's our son's girlfriend."
Uncle Ryu raised a brow while Soho blinked, then turned to Venzel with mock offense. "And you didn't introduce her to us yet? Hah, keeping secrets, are we?"
Venzel choked a little on his rice. "It's not like that—"
But Tsuki wasn't done.
"And," Tsuki added sweetly, "they're already talking about marriage."
Soho's eyes went wide. Ryu raised both brows, clearly amused.
But before anyone could react further, Tsuki continued in the same whisper but it was the kind of whisper that everyone at the table could hear.
"You know," she said, her voice lilting, "my son was crying his eyes out when we sent him to work with the potatoes in the greenhouse."
Aoki let out a snort.
Venzel dropped his chopsticks. "Mom—!"
Tsuki giggled, waving him off like a giddy schoolgirl. "And then my hubby here—bless him—he found Kana and brought her for a visit. And just like that, look at him!"
She gestured proudly with both hands. "All smiles and happy face! Like a whole new person!"
Everyone at the table except Renji turned to look at Venzel, who looked like he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
Soho's laughter burst out, sharp and delighted. "I love this woman even before meeting her now."
Venzel bowed his head slightly, as if in solemn reverence, and lifted a glistening piece of pork belly to his mouth.
The moment it touched his tongue, everything else, his mom's storytelling, Soho's laughter, Renji's sulking, faded into the background.
Ahhhhhh...
The pork belly was divine.
The outer edge had been seared to a delicate crisp, offering the faintest resistance before giving way to an impossibly soft, melt-in-the-mouth center.
The fat was perfectly rendered...
buttery, silken...
Infused with the deep, rich umami of soy sauce, brown sugar, garlic, and star anise.
Every chew released a flood of flavor that danced across his tongue...
sweet and savory...
With a subtle smoky note from the wok.
There was a faint zing from ginger, and just when he thought it couldn't get any better, a whisper of toasted sesame oil slipped in and made him groan under his breath.
His eyes fluttered shut.
This was art.
Not food. Not just meat.
Art.
He grabbed a spoonful of jasmine rice to soak up the thick, glossy sauce still coating his plate, the grains now stained a warm, golden-brown.
Then came the mushrooms, fat shiitake soaked in soy glaze, tender enoki laced with garlic and chili oil and the plump shrimp his mom had lovingly added to his plate, still curled and glistening with a thin coat of butter and black pepper.
He glanced up briefly, eyes dazed, cheeks full, as if surfacing from a dream.
If they were still teasing him, he didn't hear it.
All he could do was let out a soft, reverent whisper:
"…Mom, you killed this."