The sign swings gently above the door, freshly repainted with bold brushstrokes:
Shiranami Teahouse & Inn
Reopened.
Grandma stands by the entryway, bowing deeply as the first guests arrive—an elderly couple with walking sticks and kind, sea-glass eyes.
"Welcome," she says warmly. "Please, make yourselves at home."
I'm just behind her, wearing an apron two sizes too big and gripping a tray like it's about to bite me.
"Relax," Kaito whispers beside me, nudging my elbow. "You look like you're about to enter a sword fight, not serve tea."
"I am fighting," I hiss. "Fighting the urge to run away."
He laughs under his breath and slips past me to grab a tray with practiced ease. His apron is slightly crooked, and there's a smudge of flour on his cheek, but he moves confidently—like he belongs here.
The couple chooses a table by the window, where the ocean breeze sneaks through the open screens. The sound of waves hums softly behind the clinking of teacups.
I bring over their tea—carefully, quietly—and bow just like Grandma showed me.
"Thank you, dear," the woman says kindly.
I smile back. Just a little.
As I return to the kitchen, Kaito catches my eye. "See? Not so scary."
"Don't jinx it," I mutter.
"You even did the bow," he teases. "Didn't know Ayu-nyan could be so polite."
I shoot him a glare. "Call me that one more time and you're doing every dish tonight."
He shrugs, smirking. "Worth it."
We fall into a rhythm after that. Grandma takes orders, I prep the trays, and Kaito works the kitchen with surprising skill. He moves like he's done this before—probably helped his brother, Ren, when they were younger.
At one point, I catch him humming. Something soft. A tune I can't quite place, but it feels oddly familiar—like a memory I didn't know I missed.
I pause at the doorway, holding an empty tray, watching him.
The sunlight filters through the wooden slats, painting golden lines across the counter and his profile.
And for just a second, it doesn't feel like work.
It feels like home.