Baked Rice

The road curved gently along the northern ridge, the late-day sun leaking through the tree canopy like gold dust. The Supra hummed beneath us, steady and low, its engine a familiar whisper after so many miles. We were headed toward Hachinohe—the final leg before crossing to Hokkaidō.

At least, that’s what Ryoji had said as we loaded the trunk and rolled out of the temple grounds, like it was just another item on the checklist.

No hesitation. No ceremony. Just drive.

“We’ll stop once more,” he said, eyes steady on the road. “There’s a safehouse. After that, we head for the crossing.”

I nodded, my forehead against the window, watching the trees flicker past like memories I hadn’t decided whether to keep or not.

The call.

I had to call my father after we crossed. Confirm the meeting place. Confirm he was still where we thought he was. Confirm—well—everything.

I glanced at Ryoji. The light cut across his face in bands. He looked as unreadable as ever. No trace of the man who’d just calmly disarmed a woman who may or may not have wanted to marry him via spear combat.

“So,” I said, fidgeting with my seatbelt. “Rika.”

He kept driving. But I saw the flicker. A shallow breath.

“What happened?” I asked. “Why did that fight have to happen?”

There was a pause.

“They’re traditional people,” he said finally. “Old values. Old vows.”

“That’s not an answer,” I muttered.

He let out a small breath. “Some years ago, she went to Osaka. Got herself into serious trouble with the Yakuza.”

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Local family. She was cornered. I happened to be there. Intervened.”

I leaned forward, staring. “That’s the first time you’ve ever given me so many client details. Where did the confidentiality clause go?” I jabbed. “Wow. Ryoji’s finally opening up. Mark this moment in history.”

He didn’t smirk, but something in his shoulders shifted. Loosened.

“There was no client. No contract,” he said. “I just crossed her path. Right as they were taking her. Besides I have history with the village there.”

“Oh.”

I leaned back, letting that settle. “Right. Got it. Knight in shining armor saves the Miko… No, wait—samurai. Samurai saves Miko. Much more on-brand.”

His hands stayed firm on the wheel, but his voice dropped just enough to be real:

“She would’ve died.”

That shut me up.

For a second.

Then I quietly added, “Still… some vow, huh?”

He didn’t answer.

We just kept driving, northbound again. The road narrowing, the wind picking up, the weight of all the things left unsaid sitting between us.

The town was barely a dot on the map—weathered rooftops slouched under power lines and sky. We parked in front of a half-abandoned mom-and-pop store, where batteries rubbed elbows with soy sauce on dusty shelves. A rusted Coca-Cola sign creaked overhead. Somewhere, a cicada screamed like it had a grudge.

A small boy sat on the cracked concrete near the entrance, drawing loops in the dirt with a plastic spoon. He glanced up, squinting at us with the solemn judgment only five-year-olds—or Shinto priests—can muster, then returned to his dirt masterpiece.

“Hey, Granma,” Ryoji called out like we were just swinging by for tea.

I barely flinched. At this point in the journey, he could’ve told me she was a time-traveling priestess or a retired spy and I’d have nodded politely.

Inside, the shop smelled like miso packets, sun-aged wood, and memories. The shelves were bowed, the goods arranged with no discernible system. Behind the tiny counter sat a woman so small and folded with age she looked like part of the furniture—until she lit up at the sound of Ryoji’s voice.

“Ryoji-san!” Her face bloomed into a smile that seemed to ripple through the whole store. “You brought your girlfriend? How are you?”

I was too stunned to respond immediately. She was ancient—serene, with eyes like cloudy marbles and hands that trembled even at rest—but somehow she radiated kindness. Her words were soft, like she’d spoken them through a dream.

I gave a polite bow. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am. Thank you for having us.”

Ryoji didn’t miss a beat. “Sightseeing trip. Planning the wedding and honeymoon, of course.”

I blinked.

Wait—what?

The old woman let out a small gasp, her hands fluttering to her chest. “Oh my, oh my…” Her eyes watered instantly, like someone had flipped an emotional switch. “So lovely. Such a lovely couple. You two look blessed, you truly do…”

I didn’t dare look at him. My face was burning. But I still bowed again, politely, suppressing the urge to kick his shin.

The moment passed gently, like a breeze. Then the old woman tilted her head, all sincerity. “So then… how can I help you today?”

“The usual,” Ryoji replied, sliding a small envelope onto the lacquer-chipped counter.

She picked it up, barely glancing at it, then tucked it beneath a cloth mat with a nod. Her voice dropped to a confidential hush.

“The kitchen’s in the back, if you want to use it,” she said. “I’m too old to cook now, you know that.”

Ryoji gave her a small, heartfelt smile. “Thanks, Granma. I’ll take you up on that.”

She reached out and patted his arm, her paper-thin fingers trembling, then turned away to shuffle toward a kettle that had clearly boiled more decades than water.

I watched her go, then finally looked at him.

“You planned a wedding and didn’t invite me?”

He grinned. “Still time to send the invitations.”

The backroom looked like time had forgotten it on purpose.

Faded linoleum peeled up from the corners. A small, likely ’60s kitchenette sat under a yellowing strip light that buzzed like a lazy bee. The fridge, rusted handle and all, hummed like it had opinions. Dust and soy sauce and the weight of old memories hung in the air.

Ryoji moved through it like he’d always known the place. No hesitation. He shifted a stool, opened a cabinet, grabbed tins, rifled through mismatched utensils. His usual edge was softened—shoulders loose, calm, at ease.

He set a cutting board on the tiny counter and announced, “Baked rice.”

I blinked. “Baked rice? As in—Itameshi? Wait, wait, I know this one. That weird Japanese-Italian dish from back in the day?”

He nodded, already slicing an onion with the kind of casual precision that made me suspect he’d disarmed people with the same rhythm.

“I’ve got my own spin,” he said. “Tomato, green peas, a bit of Italian salami. No eggs. And the crust needs to be dark orange—never pale. That’s the point.”

“No eggs?” I said, mock-offended. “But what about the sacred cheesy omelette blanket?”

“Sacrilege,” he muttered, reaching into a cracked tin for short-grain rice. “Come give me a hand.”

I hesitated. That wasn’t like him. He usually cooked like he fought—alone, silent, hyper-focused. But now, he glanced at me over his shoulder and gave a little nod.

I stepped in beside him. “Well,” I said, rinsing my hands in a chipped basin, “looks like dueling temple maidens or climbing sacred mountaintops is good for your mood.”

He gave the smallest of smiles. “Therapeutic.”

I grabbed a bowl, scooped in the peas. “I was expecting the usual mission debriefing. ‘Objective: cross to Hokkaidō. Threat level: severe. Route: classified.’”

“That’ll come,” he said, pouring oil into a dented frying pan with care. “For now… let’s eat.”

And just like that, we cooked.

It was awkward at first—I didn’t know where anything was, and the knives were all too dull or too sharp, no in-between—but somehow it worked. I stirred while he seasoned. He sautéed while I lined the casserole pan with parchment that kept folding in the wrong direction. Our elbows bumped. We bickered over salami thickness. We accidentally almost set a paper towel on fire when I leaned too close to the gas flame.

And somewhere in between all that chaos and laughter, something settled inside me.

It wasn’t just the cooking. It was him.

The quiet way he moved around me. The way he corrected my grip without comment. The way he listened, even when I was just babbling about nothing, filling the silence.

He was relaxed. Not because we were safe—no, we weren’t—but because for once, maybe, we weren’t running. Not for this hour. Not in this kitchen.

I didn’t say it aloud, but I thought it.

This was the first time I truly saw the man behind the weapon.

And somehow, that was scarier than any of the enemies we’d faced.

While the rice baked in the rusted oven, casting a faint tomato-sweet warmth through the tiny kitchen, Ryoji got up.

He walked to the wall and, almost absently, peeled back a panel hidden behind a hanging calendar. What emerged was something I half-expected at this point—a ground line. Coiled cord. Olive drab plastic. Probably wartime. It looked like it belonged in a trench, not a kitchen.

He didn’t use it. Just checked the line, tapped the cradle, and left it resting on the counter.

Then he sat back down at the table across from me, arms loose, not crossed.

“Let’s wait for the rice,” he said simply.

Then, after a pause: “So. About that time in Paris…”

I blinked.

He remembered? From the plane?

I stared at him for a second, unsure if this was a trap or a trick or some spy-game double meaning. But there was none of that in his eyes. No calculation. Just quiet, expectant calm.

He wanted to talk.

To me. About me.

So I told him.

I started off slow, awkward. About how awful Patricia was—queen bee of the ballet group, always critiquing everyone else while pretending she was just “helping.”

About how Sylvie, bless her chaotic soul, taught me how to survive. We’d sneak croissants from the kitchen at night and whisper about boys we didn’t have time for.

I told him how I tripped mid-spin during a rehearsal and tried to style it out as a flourish, only to get a lecture from Lady Luciana that lasted two days.

He smiled at that.

So I kept going.

Told him about the night we all broke curfew to sneak out to this exclusive gala, only to realize we’d mixed up the date and it wasn’t even happening. So we got ice cream instead. Pistachio and chocolate. Sat by the river and made up dance names like midnight frog twirl and toe of despair.

Renato had been there, and Sylvie too. Patricia found out but didn’t rat us out. She just promised to destroy me on stage.

“She said, ‘I’ll beat you in the spotlight, not in the street.’”

Ryoji chuckled.

Actually chuckled.

I caught a glimpse of teeth. A flash of something lighter than his usual mask. And in that second, the quiet assassin I’d traveled with felt a little more like someone human. Someone real.

He didn’t interrupt. Just watched me. Made small comments. Laughed softly. Asked what flavor ice cream I had. Asked how Sylvie danced.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I realized he wasn’t just being polite. He was savoring it.

My dumb stories. My post-teenage drama.

Because for him, this was… luxury. This kind of life. Friendship. Screw-ups. Ridiculous rivalries. They weren’t mundane.

They were rare.

His world was built in shadows. His memories soaked in silence and survival. He’d had to carve out every scrap of peace. And now, sitting here, listening to my memories like they were precious old records, I could see the way he held them—with care.

And suddenly, all the things I used to roll my eyes at—how angry I’d been, how dramatic everything felt back then—started to feel… small. But not in a bad way.

Small, like sacred things are.

Like fireflies in a jar. Like the last quiet moment before the war resumes.

We sat there, in the flickering light of an ancient kitchen, with baked rice warming behind us.

Ryoji had left a big portion in the oven, after we ate our fill.

It was delicious.

Simple, comforting food—no pretense, just nourishment. The baked rice had a dark orange crust, caramelized at the edges; sweet, rich tomato; salami bits like tiny fireworks. We ate slowly, wordless, the kitchen still warm and steeped in quiet history.

Afterward, we cleaned—wiping counters, stacking mismatched plates, rinsing utensils under lukewarm water. No orders. No instructions. Just two people moving in sync.

As we stepped out into the soft night, the cicadas already humming again in the distance, a voice called out:

“Young lady!”

I turned.

The old woman stood in the doorway, smiling gently, holding out a cloth bag wrapped with care. Inside were wrapped rice crackers, dried fruits, and little handmade treats.

“These will give you courage,” she said, voice low and velvety with age.

Then she reached out and took my hands—so softly, so delicately—as though handling something sacred.

Her fingers were cool and paper-thin, but her touch had an odd gravity. As if, in that brief contact, she was giving something. Strength? Luck? A prayer? I didn’t know. But when I looked into her eyes, there was something there that startled me.

A flicker of understanding.

A quiet empathy.

Woman to woman. No need for words. Just a recognition. Of weight carried. Of choices made. Of the road ahead.

Then, just like that, the moment broke.

“Daiki!” she shouted, as her grandson began climbing an entire display shelf with the tactical intent of a monkey. She rushed after him with surprising speed.

I turned to see Ryoji already looking back. I gave a short wave. The old woman, now holding her mischievous charge like a potato sack, waved back with one hand.

We got into the Supra.

The doors clacked shut.

As we pulled out of the dusty lot and back onto the road, I sat with the treat bag in her lap, staring at it like it was a riddle.

I glanced at Ryoji’s profile—calm, focused, like always. The dim dashboard lights painted his face in amber and green.

”…Who are these people in your life?” I muttered under my breath.

He didn’t answer.

Then—

“That?” he said, eyes still on the road. “That’s Grandma.”

As if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

As if it were true.

And for a moment, I believed him. Not because it was true. But because it mattered that he wanted it to be.

Now we were bound for Hachinohe.

And the crossing.