The last week of Makoto's vacation had flown by, and now there were only two days left before she returned to her bustling life in New York. That morning, as she and Hiromi sat in his kitchen sipping coffee, she leaned casually against the counter, her expression light but teasing.

"So, just a heads-up," she began, glancing at him with a playful glint in her eyes. "I'm spending the night at Dad's place tonight. Some father-daughter quality time. Try not to miss me too much, okay?"

Hiromi smirked, setting down his coffee cup. "Oh, don't worry about me," he replied smoothly. "I'll survive one night. Barely."

Makoto chuckled, shaking her head. "You're so dramatic."

"That's why you like me," he teased, earning a small laugh from her before she left for her father's home later that day.

--

That evening, Makoto arrived at her childhood home to find her father already bustling around the kitchen. The smell of sautéed vegetables and spices filled the air, and she smiled as she stepped inside, slipping off her coat and scarf.

"Wow, Dad," she said, peeking into the kitchen. "It smells amazing in here."

Her father looked up from the stove with a grin. "Well, I thought I'd show off a little for you tonight," he said. "You've been living on takeout and quick meals for too long. Someone has to remind you what home-cooked food tastes like."

Makoto laughed as she joined him, leaning against the counter. "It's not that bad," she said defensively. "I eat salads sometimes."

Her father raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Salads don't count. You're going to have to learn how to cook properly someday, you know," he teased, flipping something in the pan with practiced ease. "Especially if someone's going to be expecting homemade meals in the future."

Makoto blinked, caught off guard by his comment. "Dad," she said, her tone half-warning and half-amused, "are you trying to drop hints about something?"

He shrugged innocently, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small smile. "I'm just saying. It wouldn't hurt to prepare yourself. You never know when you'll need to whip up a nice dinner for two."

Makoto rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. "You're impossible," she muttered, earning a chuckle from her father.

They sat down to dinner together at the small dining table, the familiar setting bringing a wave of nostalgia for Makoto. As they ate, they talked about everything they had missed—her life in New York, his work, old family memories, and shared laughs over the quirks they both still had.

When the meal was nearly over, her father set down his fork, his expression turning thoughtful. "Makoto," he began, his tone softer now, "can I ask you something?"

Makoto looked up from her plate, her smile fading slightly. "Of course," she said.

Her father leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Do you think you're happy living the way you are now?"

Makoto tilted her head, surprised by the question. "I mean... yes, I think so. I have a good job, great friends, and a life I've built for myself. Why do you ask?"

Her father studied her for a moment before replying. "I just wonder if it's enough for you. You've accomplished so much, Makoto, and I'm proud of you. But life isn't just about work and independence. It's also about sharing it with someone."

Makoto opened her mouth to respond, but he continued. "I see the way Hiromi looks at you," he said, his voice steady. "And the way you look at him. You two fit together. And after all this time, I think it's clear to everyone—except maybe the two of you—that you're meant to be. Don't you think it's time to stop running from that?"

Makoto blinked, his words sinking in. "Dad…" she began, her voice soft, unsure of what to say.

Her father smiled gently. "I'm not saying you need to rush into anything. But I can see you two settling down soon, if you let it happen. Hiromi's a good man, and he cares about you deeply. Don't let fear or doubt keep you from something real."

Makoto looked down at her plate, her thoughts swirling. She knew her father's words came from a place of love, and deep down, she couldn't deny the truth in them.

"I'll think about it," she said quietly, finally meeting his gaze.

Her father nodded, his expression warm. "That's all I ask."

They cleared the table together, the conversation shifting back to lighter topics, but Makoto couldn't shake her father's words. Later that night, as she lay in her childhood bed, she stared at the ceiling, her mind replaying his advice.

She thought about Hiromi—his teasing smile, his steadfast presence, and the way he always managed to make her feel like she belonged. Maybe it was time to stop holding back and let herself imagine a life they could build together.