Chapter Text
The backbone of the Ishigami residence wakes up before the rest. When the sky is still wrapped in gray-blue silence. The only noises to accompany the early hour are the sounds of gentle humming, a fire pit crackling softly as you toss the sizzling mixture in the pan with practiced hands, and the chirps of birds who have no regard for those who like to start their day during the later hours. The aroma of soy sauce and woodsmoke fills the air. You murmur self taught instructions under your breath, half-aware, until footsteps approach. Senku, hair in a rare state of listening to gravity, sits across from you with a yawn.
“Didn’t have to wake up early for me,” he mutters, though he reaches for the warm, fresh plate the moment you offer it. He takes a bite into the breakfast you made, still a bit dazed from the early hours his lab demands. “I know you hate waking up early.” He spots the bento you make for both him and Hirota on the counter behind you. Your hips slide in to block his vision.
You just smile distracting him with your prettiness, brushing his bangs up from his cheek.
“True,” you say, giving a gentle kiss to his forehead. “But you’ll feel better if you eat first.”
Oh how he loves his wife. It’s not about the cooking (okay, so sometimes that’s a lie)—it’s about knowing someone’s thinking of him before he’s even spoken a word. Sometimes he feels like it’s all too good to be true.
You brush your fingers gently through his hair, guiding them up and away from his skin. “And I don’t want you blowing up my kitchen. Love you!” Aaaaand there it is. He takes an angry bite in protest.
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Senku returns from the lab covered in soot and chemical smells, exhausted and hoarse. His wife doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t scold him for skipping lunch again. Instead, you silently set a bowl in front of him—rice, tender braised pork, and a soft-boiled egg perfectly marinated. His shoulders drop. He exhales.
“This looks suspiciously like bribery,” he teases.
“It's an apology,” you say, sliding into the seat beside him. “For not forcing you to eat lunch.”
He eats in silence, slow and grateful. You watch, not for praise, but for the subtle easing of tension in his jaw, the flicker of comfort in his eyes. That’s enough. You said ‘I love you’ without saying a word.
It makes the lecture he knows he’ll get about taking appropriate breaks all the more worth it.
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The day is long and quiet, and the fields have been good to the village-now-modern-extended-community this year. There’s more than enough wheat to go around. So, as the sun dips low, you set a cast-iron skillet on the fire. The smell of buttermilk biscuits and pan-fried chicken thick in the air. There’s collard greens simmering in broth, and a jar of honey you’ve been saving for the right night to fix it into something hot and all too sweet.
Senku walks in, nose twitching. “That doesn’t smell… nutritiously balanced.” He picked his words carefully. A good choice on his part if he wants to live another day.
“It smells like home,” you say, wiping your hands on your apron. “My mama used to make this when we were good and so was the money. I thought maybe you should get to try what love tastes like in the good ‘ol South.” You’ll never know this, but Senku finds your accent slipping through to be cute. And sometimes something else. Horny fuckass.
You offer him up a biscuit as a bribe. He takes a bite, the crumbles falling into the palm of your other hand held hovering under his chin. And for a rare moment, he’s quiet. Not thinking, not calculating, just tasting. He looks at you with something softer than usual.
“I’d calculate the gravitational pull of a black hole for another one of these biscuits.” Blunt as ever, but so is his praise.
You laugh, brushing a hand against his. “Good. Because I made twelve.”
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You’ve spent hours trying to replicate the flavor of Senku and his Father’s special ramen spot. Digging through your handmade notes of anytime he so much as mentioned the smell or–god forbid–an ingredient used, taste-testing the broth, fumbling with dashi and kombu. The result? A bowl of suspiciously cloudy liquid and over boiled eggs. They weren’t even marinated right, usually that’s your thing! You felt defeated.
Senku takes a bite and politely swallows. “…Bold interpretation.”
Oh he’s so nice trying to spare your feelings, your face changes into a grimace anyhow. “That bad?”
“Worse,” he says, but then leans in. “But it’s the effort that counts.”
So you sigh, dumping the pot with a dramatic groan, and say, “Alright Dr. Ishigami, show me how it’s really done.”
The two of you spend the evening shoulder-to-shoulder, hands brushing as you chop vegetables and argue over how much spices to use. He teaches, you listen—then deliberately messes up to hear his pretty laugh.
By the end your kitchen is a mess and the end result is still a little off. But as you sit on the floor together, legs tangled, eating straight from the same bowl, it doesn’t seem to matter.
Just as he leans in to kiss your cheek, Hirota walks in, eyes narrowing.
“Gross,” he mutters, walking back out.
You laugh into Senku’s shoulder, and Senku just smirks. “Jealousy looks good on him.”