Yuu didn't think.
He just moved.
Past the table, past the startled glances of his former colleagues, through the sleek archway that led toward the kitchen corridor. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the clatter of plates and the low hum of conversation.
He followed the path Kenji had taken, slipping behind the heavy door marked Staff Only before anyone could stop him.
A junior server blinked at him in confusion, but Yuu barely noticed. He spotted a slim trail of red drops—faint smears on the floor—leading toward the employee lounge.
He found Kenji there, seated on a bench, white shirt stained, the manager crouched in front of him with a first-aid kit open.
Kenji's jaw was tight, lips pressed into a line as antiseptic stung his arm. But his eyes were glassy. Lost.
"Kenji," Yuu said softly.
Kenji looked up sharply.
Nakamura turned, brows drawn. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you—"
"I just want to talk," Yuu said quickly, hands raised. "Please. Just for a second."
Kenji didn't speak.
But he didn't tell him to leave either.
Nakamura hesitated, then stood. "You've got two minutes. I'll be outside." He gave Kenji a firm glance. "We'll finish this later."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Yuu crossed the room slowly, kneeling down in front of Kenji, like he had in the restaurant. The smell of antiseptic and cold tile filled the air.
"Hey," he said gently. "You okay?"
Kenji didn't answer.
He stared at the floor, eyes wide, and suddenly—without warning—he broke.
Tears spilled fast, hot, and silent. His shoulders shook like he'd been holding them still for hours, years. A sound caught in his throat—part sob, part apology.
"I'm sorry," Kenji whispered, over and over. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
"Kenji—"
"I messed it up again. I always do. I embarrass you. I hurt you. I never should have left you. I'm so sorry—"
"Hey," Yuu cut in, his voice thick. He reached up and cupped Kenji's cheek, gently wiping a tear away with his thumb. "Look at me."
Kenji did.
Eyes red. Hands shaking.
And Yuu leaned in, closing the space between them, pressing his lips softly to Kenji's.
It wasn't rushed. Or heated. Just steady. Grounding.
When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to Kenji's and whispered, "It's okay, babe. It's not your fault."
Kenji let out a shuddering breath, as if he'd been waiting years to hear those words.
He leaned into Yuu's touch like it was the only solid thing in the room.
And in that moment—bloodied hand, tear-streaked face, and all—Kenji didn't feel broken.
He just felt held.
The door hadn't clicked shut as tightly as they'd thought.
From just beyond the frame, partially obscured by the edge of the hallway wall, Mr. Nakamura stood watching—silent, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
He hadn't meant to linger.
He'd only stepped out to give Kenji some space, maybe make a call to confirm if stitches were necessary. But when he heard the choked apologies, the quiet sobs, something in the tone had kept him rooted in place.
And when Yuu kissed Kenji…
When Kenji let him…
Nakamura's jaw tightened—not in anger, but in something closer to complicated concern.
The moment was intimate. Fragile. Nothing inappropriate, not in the vulgar sense. But deeply personal in a space meant to be professional.
Still, Nakamura saw more than most would.
He saw the raw edge in Kenji's voice. The exhaustion. The scars that didn't bleed, but still pulsed beneath the surface.
He'd known Kenji wasn't just "quiet." He'd known something had been carried into that restaurant with him when he was first hired—something heavy, like broken glass in a velvet bag. And he'd let him carry it, thinking he was being kind by not asking.
But now he saw it.
He saw why Kenji kept everything so tightly wound.
He saw what love looked like, too—complicated and messy and overdue. But real.
After a beat, Nakamura quietly stepped back into the hallway. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled, then reached for his phone. Instead of making the call he'd intended, he opened the staff calendar.
Typed in:
"Kenji: 3 days leave (paid)"
Reason: Injury – and rest.
He stood there for a moment longer, then turned and walked away, leaving the door slightly ajar—just enough for air, not enough for judgment.
Whatever had just passed between the two of them, Nakamura didn't plan to interfere.
Not anymore.
Let them have this moment.
They'd both earned it.