I started with the risotto first.

It always needed more attention.

More patience.

More... care.

The pan warmed under my hand as I added a small knob of butter and a drizzle of olive oil, letting it melt together before tossing in finely chopped onion. The soft sizzle filled the space behind the counter, quiet but steady, and I stirred it slowly, watching as the onion turned translucent.

No rushing.

Never rushing.

Good food didn't like being rushed.

I added the rice next—short-grain, the kind that held onto flavor—and let it toast lightly in the pan, each grain coated in butter and oil. The smell shifted immediately, deeper, warmer. Then came a splash of white wine.

A soft hiss.

Steam rising.

I stirred again.

Always stirring.

Letting it absorb.

Letting it build.

This was the part I liked.

The process.

Because risotto wasn't something you could just throw together and forget about. It demanded attention. You had to stay with it, add warm broth slowly, one ladle at a time, letting each addition soak in before the next.

Step by step.

Control.

Precision.

Patience.

I reached for the broth and poured a little in, watching the rice shift and move, then stirred again, slow circles, keeping everything even.

"...this is better."

I hadn't said it out loud.

But the thought stayed.

Because until now?

No one really ordered food.

Coffee.

Cake.

Quick things.

Things I could do without thinking.

But this?

This was different.

This was... cooking.

Actually cooking.

I added a pinch of salt, a bit of pepper, then another ladle of broth, letting it simmer down again. The texture started to change, slowly turning creamy, the rice softening just enough while still holding its shape.

Italian style.

Simple ingredients.

Done right.

That's all it needed.

I grated a bit of parmesan, setting it aside for the finish, then checked on the fish in the other pan, flipping it carefully so the skin stayed crisp. Vegetables followed—lightly sautéed, nothing too heavy, just enough to balance the plate.

Everything moved together.

Timed.

Controlled.

Exactly how I liked it.

I glanced over my shoulder for a second.

The officers were still talking, a bit louder now, more relaxed. Sansa was laughing at something, Tsukauchi listening with that calm expression of his. The others had settled in, tension gone, replaced by something... easier.

Normal.

I turned back to the risotto, adding the final ladle of broth.

"...yeah."

I liked this.

More than I expected.

Because it wasn't just about keeping the place running anymore.

It wasn't just survival.

This—

This felt like something closer to what this café was supposed to be.

I stirred in the parmesan, letting it melt into the rice, finishing it with a small knob of butter to give it that smooth, creamy texture.

Perfect.

I plated it carefully.

Not rushed.

Not messy.

Just right.

"...I could get used to this."

By the time everything was ready, the café smelled... different.

Warmer.

Full.

Not just coffee and sugar—but something deeper. Butter, broth, seared fish, herbs. Real food.

I plated everything carefully, making sure each portion looked right. Risotto smooth and creamy, just the right consistency—not too thick, not too loose. A bit of parmesan on top, nothing excessive. The fish plates were simple but clean: golden skin, rice neatly set beside it, vegetables adding just enough color.

Nothing fancy.

Just... done properly.

I balanced the plates and started bringing them out, one by one at first, then two at a time once I got the rhythm. The table filled quickly, conversation pausing as the smell reached them before the plates did.

Sansa leaned forward immediately.

"Oh, that smells amazing."

One of the others nodded. "That's way better than station food already."

"That's not a high bar," another added dryly.

I set the last plate down in front of Tsukauchi, who gave me a small, appreciative nod.

"Thank you."

I just shrugged lightly.

"Eat before it gets cold."

They didn't need to be told twice.

For a moment, the table went quiet except for the sound of cutlery and the occasional low hum of approval. Someone muttered a quiet "wow," another gave a small laugh like they hadn't expected it to be this good.

I turned back toward the counter, already reaching for a cloth out of habit—

"Hey."

I paused.

Sansa.

Of course.

I looked over my shoulder.

He was pointing at an empty chair.

"Sit."

I blinked.

"...what."

"Sit," he repeated, like it was obvious. "You made all this."

One of the others nodded. "Yeah, at least eat with us."

"I can eat later."

"You will eat later," Sansa shot back. "Or you'll forget."

...he wasn't wrong.

Tsukauchi set his fork down for a moment, looking at me calmly.

"You mentioned you're usually alone during the day."

I didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

He continued anyway.

"You don't have to be right now."

Simple.

Direct.

No pressure in his tone.

Which somehow made it worse.

Or... harder to ignore.

I glanced at the empty chair.

Then at the counter.

Then back at them.

"...I still have things to do."

"Later," Sansa said immediately.

"We're literally your only customers," someone else added.

"And we're not going anywhere," another chimed in, mouth half full.

"That's not reassuring."

"It should be."

I exhaled quietly through my nose.

This was... unnecessary.

Unfamiliar.

Disruptive.

...not bad.

Just—

Different.

I hesitated for a second longer.

Then clicked my tongue softly and walked over, pulling out the chair.

"Five minutes."

Sansa grinned like he'd just won something.

"Sure."

I sat down.

Still half-aware of everything around me.

Still listening for the door.

Still watching.

But—

For once—

Not standing behind the counter.

I grabbed a fork, taking a small bite of the risotto.

Still warm.

Still right.

"...not bad," I muttered.

Sansa snorted. "Not bad? That's what you're going with?"

I shrugged slightly.

"It works."

One of the others laughed.

Tsukauchi just watched quietly, a faint hint of something softer in his expression.