When Souma came to, he had absolutely no memory of what had happened after he'd dropped to the ground (he later found out that this was probably because of the colossal amount of anesthesia Hisako had forced him to inhale for the operation).

Which is why he all but fell over when he witnessed Nakiri Erina flambeing in his kitchen like they'd been cohabitating for years. Like… they were together.

Ex girlfriend? That seemed like eons ago already, too far back in a past lifetime to even carry meaning anymore. Those memories were from a different era.

Before he went under, he had decided that he could not possibly care if they were just friends or whatever, but the second he saw her wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of his joggers with the cuffs rolled up to her knees, all that faux resolve evaporated. Even with her hair tied in a messy knot high over her head, no makeup to speak of, and dark circles under her amethyst eyes, she was fucking gorgeous as she spun gracefully around the kitchen. It took every ounce of his self control to refrain from discarding all common sense and falling back into the long-lost comfort of her arms, from crossing the broad lines she had clearly defined between them—slashing through his pride and all the feelings they'd unsuccessfully tried to repress over the years.

He settled with "The heavenly shit did you get in here?"

"Hisako has keys."

True.

"Sit down," she said, and he was too stupefied to do anything but. He wobbled over to the living room adjacent to the kitchen. A wave of nausea slammed into him as he passed her and his legs gave out. He collapsed in front of her—oh, the irony—and remained there on his hands and knees. He probably couldn't cut melted butter if he tried.

Then before he knew it, she was sliding his arm over her shoulders and lifting him to his feet.

"Come on." Her voice was gentle, surprisingly so.

Once he was on the loveseat, she brought him a cross between paella and a risotto and the decadent umami-rich aroma wafted over him in a fucking tsunami. If he wasn't careful, she'd knock him out. "You've been out for the last five days. It was a blunder to discharge you."

"Isn't this my curry risotto?" Souma asked doubtfully, picking up his fork.

Rolling her eyes, Erina sat on the opposite side of the loveseat and instructed, "Shut up and eat."

When he was done, he said, "I missed your cooking, Nakiri." He wondered if his voice sounded as pained as he felt, if she could hear him choking on the words. God, it broke his heart a thousand times over just thinking about it.

"I was afraid for you, Yukihira."

"What?"

Something in the way his expression changed then razed down the the filter in her mouth it had taken seven years to perfect, and before she knew it she was blurting out the things she'd been dying to tell him for the better part of a decade, knowing that it wouldn't matter anymore if shit was going to finally work out between them. If giving up Fountainhead and everything else meant he could be with her… he'd have done it a long time ago. But that wasn't what she wanted from him. Things were different now.

"I don't know if this will matter between us anymore, but I need to tell you that it was always you. I know I've hurt you more times than either of us can count over the last seven years, and I… I'm sorry. And then this week I wasn't sure if you were even going to wake up, and I realized there is still so much I want to do with you but I might never have the chance. We still haven't opened a restaurant together and we've known each other for damn near a decade. I need you, Souma. With every fiber of my being. Call this a confession, apology, whatever you want, but I can't lose you."

Souma remained silent for what seemed like eternity. "You were there with me?"

"The whole time."

You, who aims for infinity. You, who will strive for new heights until you have left the end so far behind there is no center, no origin to be found. You, with your wanderlust. The rest of them, who could never understand this.

She'd never again be that vocal about her feelings for the rest of her life, and truth be told, she hadn't exactly said what she wanted to say, but it was close enough.

Erina thought back on the last years. Truth be told, some concealed, dormant part of her subterranean consciousness must've been waiting for him the entire time. Waiting for him to come back to her, waiting without ever thinking to ask. Keeping a cold front so she could try to convince herself that she didn't want him. Feelings had never been a fluent language for her, unlike Yukihira Souma, who could make all his emotions so clear with just an eyebrow raise or shut them off entirely. But she was well enough in tune with her mind to come to terms with the truth.

Since when had her entire world revolved so completely around him… drawn to him as if by the laws of gravity?

To think that all along, there had been an intangible thing, some serendipitous red string—no, a white cloth—of fate between them, tying her to him. Just as she thought she'd finally gotten over his lopsided smile and erratic habits (the idiot was still experimenting with that damned peanut butter squid), when she was ready to close her eyes to the lingering sentiments of her high school love and leave behind the past, she learned that he needed her.

Sitting in the hospital room for five days straight watching Yukihira Souma stalling halfway between life and death, pleading with any and all divine entities that he'd regain consciousness and be able to taste her cooking again, terrified that he would leave her — because if he didn't wake up she had no idea if she'd be able to deal with the agony.

To Erina, that was…


Good lord, he hurt like hell.

They were sitting on the hardwood floor with a foot of space between them, leaning against the loveseat, mostly in silence. Erina depleted a good portion of pinot grigio as Souma watched enviously. It was two in the morning by the time she went out like a light, slowly dipping further to the left until she was fast asleep with her head in Souma's lap.

He took a few moments to admire how pretty she really was, running his fingers through her gold hair, caressing the soft curves of her face in awe, shifting just fractionally to make her more comfortable. In her sleep, there were no signs of stress on her features, no signs of the million burdens she'd shouldered over the years. And right then and there, he promised himself that he would not become another burden. He'd be the one that lifted that weight off of her, because that was what you did for someone you loved.

Knowing but not really caring that when Erina returned to her twelve or so senses she'd give him hell and send him back to the hospital for overexerting himself, he carefully picked her up, carried her to his room, and set her down gently on the bed. He was just pulling the duvet around her chin when her entire body went tense.

"Nakiri? You good?" he asked.

She didn't hear him—she was still asleep—but her eyebrows scrunched together and her jaw locked, her face all angles. Sweat broke out at her hairline, her breathing got faster, and Souma realized Nakiri Erina was having a nightmare.

"Don't," she murmured, and Souma spontaneously wondered if she was talking to him. Her voice was lost and afraid. A tear slid from the corner of her eye and ran over the bridge of her nose. It terrified him, how sad she could look in her sleep.

"Nakiri," he said in a low voice, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Nakiri."

"Souma… don't… don't leave me again."

For the first time in his memory, Souma felt hot tears in his eyes—tears for Nakiri Erina, a queen who ruled the whole damn world. Nakiri Erina, who feared losing him.

Souma leaned over and wrapped an arm around her, barely able to hold his weight with the other. He whispered against the shell of her ear, "I'm not going anywhere, Erina." Maybe his voice reached her nightmare, he had no idea, but he knew she'd understood when he moved a lock of hair from her eyes and kissed her forehead. Her face relaxed and he thumbed away her tears.

When he was done washing the dishes and brushing his teeth, Souma dragged himself back to the bedroom and, after wondering whether it was okay to do so, got into bed next to Nakiri Erina.

He had just lifted the covers higher up past her shoulders when she shifted, and before he knew it her head was nestled in the curve of his neck and her arms were tucked in the minute space between their chests. She mumbled something that sounded like Dove shampoo and Souma vaguely noted that her mouth used to make a similar movement when she said I love you.

To think he'd almost left her.

To Souma, that was…