8.5 years post grad

They were sitting on the skydeck of Souma's building, sipping sauv blanc and watching the sun go down. It occurred to Erina within a few moments that Souma wasn't even registering the evening — or the wine. The stem of the glass was held loosely between his fingers, and had Erina not been preoccupied with the way he was looking at her with wistful eyes, she would've scolded him for almost dropping the crystal.

"The hell are you doing?" Erina asked with furrowed brows.

"Drinking wine," he replied. "I'm not doing anything."

"You're looking at me with these sad eyes. You look like a kicked puppy, goddammit."

"Erina, I love you," he said.

She choked on air and managed a very eloquent "Mmguh?" but he wasn't even listening to her at this point.

"Every second I'm terrified that I won't have the chance to tell you again, so I'm saying it now when I can."

Erina leaned against his shoulder. "I'm glad you did, Souma."

He arched an eyebrow at her. "My name sounds so much better coming from your mouth, you know?"

"Of course I do."

Yukihira Souma, I love you. I could not possibly love you any more than I already do and yet I will love you more tomorrow, because everything about us revolves around the limits we have long since surpassed.

Yes, this — this sunset, the coming sunrise, the rises and falls, the triumph and tribulation, the blood and sweat and tears, the conflict and compromise, the wasteland and the paradise that would follow — this was love.


9 years

As with most things between them, it started with food.

One night before the soft opening, it occurred to Erina that they were supposed to be finalizing the hall setup, not playing cards and depleting every BBQ Chicken store in Seoul. It was tragic to admit that their work ethic had not changed a single damn bit since high school.

Then out of the blue they threw down their chicken wings, wrestled their way into the spotless kitchen, dug out strawberries and tapioca pearls, and began fighting over which was better with yogurt.

"Tapioca belongs in milk tea," Erina insisted again as she picked up a plump strawberry by its calyx. "One does not eat yogurt as boba."

"But think of it this way, Nakiri." Souma planted his hands on the counter and stared vehemently at the two foods in front of them. "The chewiness of the tapioca is a perfect complement to the rich, smooth creaminess of the yogurt. Especially Greek yogurt. For example, if you had yogurt mixed with strawberry extract, then you could add the pearls and it'd literally be strawberry boba."

"Ew. That sounds fucking disgusting."

Souma laughed so hard he choked on a ladleful of tapioca. "That's so mean."

"I'm a Nakiri," Erina replied sardonically. "Deal with it."

When he didn't say anything, Erina turned to face him. He was doing it again — that sad expression with all the world's nostalgia in his honey eyes. The depth in them was beyond imagination, overhead lights glinting off those fragile shards of glass.

Then it occurred to her that she hadn't told him yet.

"I totally love you, Souma. I think you already knew that, but you seriously need to hear it. You look like I'm in my grave."

Souma grinned. "Of course you love me." He pressed his mouth to hers in a kiss; it was soft, chaste, and spoke volumes about the attraction between them. In essence, it was a testament to everything they'd been through, everything that had led to this moment.

When he pulled away, he said, "Nakiri, did you know strawberries taste like you?"

"I taste like strawberries? That's all I've been eating for the last ten minutes, fool."

"No, Erina. I meant what I said. Strawberries taste like you."

For the last decade of the twenty-seven years she'd spent living on this earth, Erina's pragmatism had doubted the existence of that one shoujo trope her youth had attempted to cling to but eventually relinquished when she'd let go of Souma's hand the first time.

But it seemed not all shoujo mangas were fantasy.