Chapter 10: The Taste of Home
The scent of bread was his first conscious thought. It was a deep, yeasty, golden smell that wove through the quieter predawn hum of the city, unmistakable and insistent. It pulled him up from a sleep so profound it felt like resurfacing from warm, dark water.
His second thought was the weight against his chest, the heat along his side.
He opened his eyes. The room was washed in the cool, pale light of a Paris morning, the rooftops outside the window etched in soft focus. Akari was awake, propped on one elbow, watching him. Her short hair was a chaotic mess, one side flattened. She’d been quiet for so long he hadn’t realized she wasn’t asleep. Her expression was unreadable, a careful neutral that made his still-sleeping heart give a nervous thud.
Then she moved.
She didn’t speak. She lowered her head and pressed her lips to his forehead. A soft, dry touch. Then to his temple, where a pulse jumped. Then the corner of his eye, his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, still rough with stubble. Each kiss was a deliberate punctuation in the quiet room, a slow mapping of his face. They weren’t hungry or frantic. They were considered. Ceremonial, almost.
He lay perfectly still, afraid to break the spell, his breath caught somewhere high in his throat. Her eyes were open, watching his reactions, her gaze flicking between the spot she’d just kissed and his eyes.
Finally, she hovered over his mouth. A pause. The warmth of her breath mingled with his. She brushed her lips against his, once, twice—soft, testing presses that sparked a low current in his stomach. Then the third kiss deepened. Her hand came up to cradle his jaw, her thumb stroking his cheek. It was a kiss of pure, slow sensation, tasting of sleep and shared wine and a decision made in the dark.
She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips brushing his as she formed the words.
“Let’s go get breakfast.”
Her voice was morning-rough, a private sound. It wasn’t a question.
He could only nod, a slight movement against the pillow.
The process of getting ready was a new, intimate dance. He dug out a spare toothbrush, still in its packaging, and they brushed their teeth side-by-side in the small bathroom, foamy mouths catching each other’s eyes in the mirror. She used her fingers to tame her hair with a little water, a style that looked artfully disheveled. He threw on jeans and a clean t-shirt—a subdued one, plain navy, not an anime logo in sight. She dressed in last night’s clothes, which suddenly seemed to carry the entire weight of the previous evening. A sock was missing. They found it under the sofa.
“Ready?” he asked, hovering by the door.
“For a croissant?” She slipped on her shoes, a faint smile returning. “Always.”
The staircase felt different in the morning. The sounds from other apartments—a baby crying, a radio playing French news—felt domestic, grounding. They stepped out into the crisp air. The bakery line was already five people deep, a good sign. The smell here was overwhelming, a wall of butter and heat.
They stood close in the queue, not touching, but he could feel the warmth of her arm through her sweater. They didn’t speak. The mundane ritual of waiting, of watching the baker shuffle trays in the back, of listening to the rapid-fire orders, was somehow charged. It felt like they were pretending to be a normal couple, testing the fit of the roles.
They got two café crèmes and two croissants, still almost too hot to hold, the paper bag transparent with grease. They took them to a small, empty square with a bench facing a leafless plane tree.
The first bite was a religious experience. The shatter of the outer layers, the airy, steaming interior. She closed her eyes as she chewed, a soft hum of pleasure escaping her. “Okay,” she conceded after swallowing. “Worth the sleep deprivation.”
He grinned, a surge of stupid pride flooding him. “Told you.”
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the coffee burning their tongues, the city waking around them. It was the calm after the storm. The ease felt earned, but fragile.
She broke it, picking a flake of pastry from her lap. “So. The studio.”
He tensed, the croissant turning to clay in his mouth. “Yeah.”
“We walk in separately,” she said, her tone shifting into something practical, strategic. It was the Akari from the sync meetings. “We were at the same industry izakaya. We left at different times. Nothing happened.”
He stared at her. “But something did happen.”
“I know.” She met his gaze, steady. “That’s why the rules matter. The French team is… gossipy. The Toei contingent is worse. If this becomes a thing, it becomes the only thing. Every disagreement in a mix session, every late night, it all gets seen through that lens. Especially for me.” She took a sip of coffee. “My credibility is hard-won. I won’t have it become ‘Akari and her American animator.’”
The words were sharp, logical. They cut through the morning’s gentle haze. He understood them, hated them, and knew she was right. The memory of her describing the casual condescension from older male engineers in Tokyo was fresh. This was her armor, and she wasn’t taking it off for anyone, not even for him.
“Okay,” he said, the word tasting bitter. “Separate. Professional.”
“At work,” she clarified, a slight emphasis on the first two words.
He looked at her. “And not at work?”
A flicker of that unguarded smile from the izakaya returned. “This isn’t work.” She gestured to the bench, the empty coffee cups, the crumbs. “This is a croissant audit.”
He felt the knot in his chest loosen. “So we have a… compartmentalization agreement.”
“We have an understanding,” she corrected. She balled up her paper bag, her movements precise. “We see how it goes. No big declarations. No studio drama. Just…” She searched for the word.
“Just this,” he finished, softly.
She nodded. “Just this.”
They walked back a different route, her hand finding his in the pocket of his jacket. Her fingers were cold, but they laced tightly with his. It was a stolen gesture, away from the arrondissements of their professional lives. He memorized the feeling—the slight calluses, the way her thumb rested against his knuckle.
Back at his building, the moment fractured. The real world was reassembling itself. She checked her phone, winced at the time. “I need to change. I can’t go in smelling like yesterday.”
He walked her to the door, the space between them widening back into polite distance. “I’ll see you up there,” he said, sounding unbearably formal.
“Yes. See you in the sync meeting. Probably.” She hesitated, then leaned in, not for a kiss, but to press her cheek against his for a second. A Parisian farewell. She turned and walked down the street, a swift, purposeful figure disappearing into the morning foot traffic.
The studio felt like a different planet.
The air conditioning was a constant hum. The linoleum floors gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights. Matt sat at his Cintiq, the familiar glare of the screen a poor substitute for morning sunlight. He’d arrived fifteen minutes after her, had seen her through the glass wall of a sound booth, headphones on, pointing at a waveform on a monitor while talking to a technician. She looked immaculate, focused, untouchable.
In the 11 a.m. sync meeting, she sat across from him again. She gave him a brief, polite nod when he entered, the same nod she gave the French production assistant. It was a masterpiece of casual indifference. He tried to match it, but felt his smile was too stiff.
The meeting dragged. The director was obsessed with the sound of the villain’s energy sword. Akari spoke twice, her suggestions technical and concise. Matt offered a note about the timing of a blink syncing with a power-up sound. Their eyes never met when they spoke. It was agonizing.
Then, as the director droned on, Matt dropped his pen. It clattered on the table and rolled. He bent to get it.
Under the long table, hidden from view, the toe of his shoe nudged something. A foot, in a sleek black leather flat. He froze, crouched down. The foot didn’t move away. After a second, it pressed back, just once, a firm, secret point of contact.
He straightened up, pen in hand, his face carefully neutral. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to.
The meeting ended. People shuffled out. Akari was gathering her notes, talking to the sound technician. As she passed his chair, her shoulder brushed his. It could have been an accident in the cramped room.
Her voice, low, meant only for him, was a bare whisper. “Your pipes groan at 11 p.m., right?”
Then she was gone, leaving him sitting there, the ghost of her touch on his shoulder, the imprint of her foot against his, the whisper hanging in the sterile air. The rest of the day stretched before him, a desert of professional propriety. But now, it was a countdown.
But now, it was a countdown. The seconds on the studio clock dragged, thick and syrupy. Each task was a box to check, each conversation a performance. He animated a complex sequence of a mecha transforming, his hands moving on instinct while his mind replayed a whisper. Your pipes groan at 11 p.m., right? He smiled at his screen, a private, stupid grin.
The final bell chimed at seven. People shuffled out, exhausted. Matt took his time, scrubbing a nonexistent smudge from his monitor. Through the glass, he saw Akari still in her booth, but she was shutting down her station, slipping her laptop into her bag. She left without a backwards glance.
He forced himself to wait ten minutes. The metro ride home was a blur of tunnel lights and impatience. His apartment felt different, charged. He straightened up obsessively, then stopped, realizing the absurdity. It wasn’t a hotel. It was his messy, lived-in space, and she’d already seen it at its most vulnerable. He left a sock on the floor.
A soft, rapid knock came at 7:45. He opened the door. She was there, hair slightly wind-tousled, a fresh takeout bag from the Japanese bakery in her hand. “I got karintou,” she said, stepping inside. She dropped the bag and her bag simultaneously. “In case we get hungry.”
The door clicked shut. The silence was immediate and total. The space between them in the hallway vibrated with the day’s suppressed energy. No studio, no colleagues, no rules.
“How was your—” he began.
She closed the distance in two steps, her hands fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him down. The kiss was nothing like the morning’s gentle exploration. It was a pressure release, hungry and hurried, all heat and teeth and shared frustration. It answered every unspoken question from the long, sterile day.
They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Clothes were abandoned in a trail from the hallway to the sofa. Her back met the cushions, his knee between hers, the world narrowed to taste and touch and frantic, grasping hands. There was a clumsy, exhilarating haste to it, a rebellion against the patient waiting. A seam on the sofa pressed into his back. Her short nails dug into his shoulders, her breath harsh in his ear. It was over quickly, a collision that left them breathless and tangled in the dimming light.
For a while, they just breathed. The distant sound of a scooter echoed from the street. She traced a circle on his damp back. “So,” she said, her voice rough. “The pipes don’t only groan at 11.”
He laughed into her hair, a puff of air. “Apparently not.”
She shifted, extracting herself. “I’m starving. And I smell like your studio’s air conditioning. Let’s go.”
The fish and chips place was a fluorescent-lit hole-in-wall run by a burly Brit, a stark contrast to the izakaya. They ate at a narrow counter, shoulders pressed together, devouring greasy, vinegar-soaked chips and crispy cod from paper cones. It was unromantic and perfect.
“This is better than the fancy omakase my last date took me to in Tokyo,” Akari said, licking salt from her thumb.
“Last date?” he asked, trying for casual and missing.
“Six months ago. A producer. He spent forty minutes explaining my own job to me.” She shrugged, taking a savage bite of fish. “The cod didn’t talk. I like the cod.”
He bumped her shoulder with his. “The cod is a good listener.”
They wandered afterwards, aimless, full of grease and warmth. The city had transformed into a grid of amber-lit streets and deep blue shadows. They crossed bridges, their footsteps mixing with the whispers of the Seine below, a callback to their first Parisian encounter. They didn’t talk much. The comfortable silence from the croissant bench had returned, deepened.
At the entrance to her metro line, they stopped under a stark white light. The crowd flowed around them like a river parting around a rock.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Separate trains again.”
“I know.” He reached for her hand. Her fingers were sticky from vinegar.
She leaned in, kissed him once, softly, a world away from the fury on his sofa. It was a kiss of closure for the night, and a promise. “Goodnight, Matt.”
He watched her descend into the bright, tiled throat of the station until she vanished around a corner. The city noise rushed back in. He turned for home, the ghost of salt and vinegar and her skin on his lips, the promise of a secret tomorrow already threading itself through the looming routine of work. The countdown was resetting.