Haruki stood outside Emi's door, his hand frozen on the brass handle. His mind was a chaotic storm, echoing with the four words that had shattered his composure: "I love you, Haruki."
He stared at the door as if he could see through it. Did she mean it? Or was it just the vulnerability of the moment—the grief, the fear, and the exhaustion speaking for her?
With a heavy exhale, he pulled out his phone and dialed Kenzo Kaminari.
"Hello, Mr. Kenzo. I'm calling to inform you that Miss Emi is asleep," Haruki lied, his forehead beaded with sweat.
"Asleep?" Kenzo's voice crackled through the line, surprised. "She was ready to leave. Why the sudden change of heart?"
"One of the staff told me she fell into a deep sleep shortly after you left," Haruki replied smoothly. "I suspect the lack of rest finally caught up with her."
"I see," Kenzo said, sounding relieved. "Well, let her rest. But Haruki, stay by her side. We'll be back by evening."
As Haruki pocketed his phone and turned, he nearly jumped. A maid was standing in the shadows, a predatory, knowing smirk playing on her lips.
"I heard everything, Mr. Hero," she whispered playfully. "Why lie to the Great Kenzo? What are you hiding?"
Haruki's gaze turned icy. "I didn't realize eavesdropping was part of the staff training here."
The maid leaned against the wall, her eyes dancing with mischief. "What if I told Sir Kenzo about that little 'incident' between you and Miss Emi earlier?"
Haruki didn't flinch. A slow, arrogant smile spread across his face. "Go ahead. Be my guest. I know Mr. Kenzo trusts me more than a gossip-hungry maid. Besides, telling him would just save me the trouble of doing it myself when the time is right."
He brushed past her without another word, leaving the maid staring at his back in awe. God, she thought, this guy's style is straight out of a movie.
Haruki entered Emi's room and pulled a chair next to her bed. She was fast asleep, her features softened by the peace of slumber.
"You look so much more peaceful when you aren't yelling, Miss Emi," he whispered.
Suddenly, Emi shifted, mumbling in her sleep. "Food... I'm hungry..."
Haruki chuckled. "Of course you are."
He made his way to the Kaminari Estate's VIP kitchen. The sheer scale of it was breathtaking—state-of-the-art appliances and marble counters that stretched for miles. My kitchen back home is a shack compared to this, he thought, but the fire in the soul is what matters.
The head chef, a stern professional, approached him. "Mr. Haruki, do you require something?"
"Actually," Haruki said, picking up a chef's knife and spinning it with practiced lethality, "I'm taking over the kitchen today. I'm making lunch for everyone."
The chef raised an eyebrow. "For everyone? You mean the entire staff?"
"Exactly. Today, you're going to taste a dish that's virtually unknown in Japan or Korea. A dish of legend."
The chef scoffed, though he looked intrigued. "A driver who thinks he's a Michelin-star chef? This I have to see."
"My mother taught me everything I know," Haruki said, his eyes sharpening. "I haven't forgotten a single lesson. Now, grab an apron. You're my sous-chef today."
The transformation of the kitchen was spectacular. Haruki moved with the grace of a dancer and the precision of a surgeon. He began by searing onions, ginger, and garlic in golden oil until the aroma filled the rafters. Then came the chicken—succulent leg and breast pieces—followed by a barrage of spices: crimson chili powder, sea salt, and a secret blend of aromatics that turned the gravy into a thick, shimmering amber sauce.
When he finally lifted the lid to let the steam escape, the scent hit the head chef like a physical blow.
"This smell..." the chef gasped, his nostrils flaring. "It's intoxicating! I've never smelled anything like this. What is it?"
"In Pakistan and India, they call it Biryani," Haruki said, his voice brimming with pride. "I call it Saffron Clouds. Are the rice grains ready?"
"Perfectly parboiled," the chef replied, now completely humbled.
Haruki began the layering—a bed of snow-white rice, followed by the rich, spiced chicken gravy, then another layer of rice. He sealed the pot for the final (steam).
"Biryani..." the chef whispered. "I've heard of it, but I never thought it required such mastery."
"Japanese and Korean cuisine is art," Haruki said, "but Pakistani food is soul. I spent a year there as a child with my father. Those mountains, that air... it changes you. This dish is a piece of those mountains."
Fifteen minutes later, the pot was opened. Haruki expertly fluffed the rice, mixing the vibrant orange-stained grains with the pearly white ones.
The staff was summoned to the grand dining table. Haruki served them personally.
"Go on," he encouraged. "Tell me what you think."
As the first spoonfuls hit their tongues, the room fell into a trance.
"What is this?" one servant cried out, his eyes rolling back. "I can't stop my hand! I've never tasted something so complex!"
A maid stared at her plate, her face flushed. "The spices... the thick yogurt in the gravy... it's so vibrant. I feel like... like I'm flying through the clouds without any clothes on! It's pure liberation!"
Haruki smirked. "You have a good palate for spices."
Soon, everyone was demanding seconds, but Haruki shook his head. "Save some for the princess."
Just then, Emi emerged, rubbing her eyes and yawning. When she saw the staff eating at her dining table, her dormant attitude flared up. "How dare you all sit at our table? Who gave you permission?"
The servants scrambled in fear, but Haruki stepped forward, holding a steaming plate. "Miss Emi, there's no need for the fire today."
Emi froze at the sound of his voice. She turned to see Haruki standing there, a gentle smile on his face and a plate of colorful rice in his hand.
"What did you do to my kitchen?" she demanded, though her nose was already twitching at the scent. "And what on earth is that?"
She doesn't remember the confession, Haruki realized with a mix of relief and disappointment. "This is Biryani. I made it specifically for you."
Emi's anger melted instantly. She leaned in, inhaling the steam. "It smells... incredible." She caught herself and crossed her arms. "Hmph. A driver making exotic food? Unlikely."
"Just try it," Haruki challenged.
Emi sat down as the staff cleared out. The moment she took a bite, her world exploded. She felt like she was standing in the middle of a storm of flavor, with Haruki transformed into a majestic monster, raining fire and spice down upon her.
She devoured the plate in record time, then stood up, slamming her hands on the table. "That was a 10/10! My taste buds are literally vibrating! Where did a driver learn to cook like this?"
"I saw a recipe from a famous Pakistani chef online," Haruki lied effortlessly.
"Pakistani food is world-famous," Emi mused, "but I didn't know they had 'Saffron Clouds' like this. You sound like you've lived there."
"I did. For a whole year, with my father."
Emi's eyes widened, but she quickly hid it. "Big deal. I can go there whenever I want. We have the money."
Haruki leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Miss Emi... do you really not remember what you said before you fell asleep?"
Emi's face went from pale to a violent, burning red. The memory hit her like a lightning bolt: "I love you, Haruki."
Without a word, she spun around and bolted for her room, her heart hammering against her ribs. Haruki watched her go, a quiet laugh escaping his lips.
Inside her room, Emi locked the door and leaned against it, clutching her burning cheeks. Why did I say that? What was I thinking?
She touched her hair, remembering the way Haruki had stroked it. She felt the ice around her heart cracking, melting away in the heat of his presence.
"I think... I think I'm melting," she whispered to the empty room. "These feelings... they're only for you, Haruki Sora."