You'd been home for all of twenty minutes, still in your patrol gear, apron thrown haphazardly over your chest. The rice cooker was humming. The cutting board was a battlefield of scallions and sliced pork. You were making way too much food, as usual, but that was the point, wasn't it? Taishiro would come home, sniff the air like a bloodhound, and wrap his big warm arms around you from behind.

And you'd pretend to complain about the heat, but you never meant it.

The sizzle of the pan filled the kitchen. You were mid-stir, spatula in hand, when the front door clicked open and shut.

He's early, you thought. Good. The pork's almost done.

You heard heavy footsteps in the genkan, then down the hall. You kept stirring, waiting for the familiar shape of him to fill the doorway—round shoulders, soft belly, that easy smile.

Then you turned.

And dropped the spatula.

The man in your kitchen was not your boyfriend. He was your boyfriend. But he wasn't. The same height, sure. The same golden-brown hair, the same scar under his eye, the same goofy grin tugging at his lips—

But this man was cut. Muscle stacked on muscle. Biceps straining the sleeves of his hero suit. Abs you could grate cheese on. A jawline that could cut glass. He looked like he'd been carved from stone and then dipped in pure, ridiculous, unfair hotness.

And he was looking at you like he'd just won the lottery.

The pork sizzled. The rice cooker beeped. You were still frozen, spatula clattering on the floor.