Abbas looked at them—truly looked at them, the way only seasoned men can, with eyes that had long stopped being dazzled by power and youth, and instead focused on the subtleties of energy and intention. He noticed the boy first. Shotaro, with his silver hair and bare feet, stood tall and unapologetically confident, his crimson eyes not so much unusual as they were fierce, carrying a weight of history. Eyes that had witnessed too much, with a hint of wildness far beyond what one would expect from a fifteen-year-old. There was an earnestness about him, as if he was marked by destiny yet had been raised with enough love to fight against it. And then there was his granddaughter—Fatiba, fidgeting nervously near the counter, caught between anxiety and affection. Her almond-shaped eyes—her mother's eyes, God rest her soul—were wide with a mix of pride and concern, but her tousled flaxen hair, inherited from Abbas, gave her an unexpectedly relatable, human quality. She wasn't just a statue or a tycoon's daughter; she was, simply, a girl. His girl.
He let the silence linger around him like cigar smoke, watching as the atmosphere thickened with unspoken words.
Then, slowly, his face twisted—not with disdain, or anger, but with something much more intriguing.
"Fufufufufu..."
His laughter began in his throat like the crank of an old engine—dry, contemplative, half-mocking, half-primitive—and gradually filled the room, like the trickster god's laughter echoing through time. His shoulders didn't move, his hands remained clasped. But his eyes sparkled. Not like a grandfather's might, but like someone who had once walked the darkest streets and now stood grinning at the bizarre dance of fate in his kitchen.
Shotaro blinked, puzzled. "Does... does he have pseudobulbar syndrome?"
Fatiba didn't say a word. She was too busy trying to untangle the layers of that laughter—the tone, the rhythm, the implications. It wasn't judgment; that would've been too simple. No, it was something more complex. It was knowing. That deep, bitter kind of knowing that comes with age, patience, and the understanding that nothing really ever changes.
Abbas leaned on his cane like it was part of him, shifting his stance to convey strength, not frailty, a sly smirk playing on his lips, too seasoned to be called smug. His gaze remained fixed on Shotaro, as his voice, steady and warm, flowed out like a soft wind from a desert before a storm.
"No, it's just… it's just preposterous," Abbas said, the words rolling out with a kind of tired humor that had long since given up on pretense. "My granddaughter bringing home… a man like you."
Shotaro tipped his head slightly, the glint of his silver hair catching the light, his eyes narrowing just a bit—not offended, just intrigued. "And what exactly fits between 'a' and 'man' in that sentence?" he probed, his tone steady but his eyes shimmering with a blend of skepticism and hope. The slight pout in his voice was intentional, a ploy to draw out the truth. "Honestly, old man. I've heard worse."
Abbas chuckled more deeply, studying Shotaro like a riddle. "That," he said, "depends on whether or not you are what you appear to be."
"And what do I look like?" Shotaro asked.
"Trouble."
Shotaro said nothing—just smirked, twirled on his heel, and started plating with that effortless grace he seemed to have in everything. No theatrics or showmanship, just focused movement, a quiet rebellion in service. He slid the steaming bowl across to Abbas like he was playing a card in a game of poker.
Abbas took it, wordlessly, grabbing the chopsticks with hands that were worn but still steady. He didn't pause to bless the food or make any grandfatherly comments. He just ate. With a hunger that even Fatiba found surprising. Each bite felt deliberate, as if he was measuring and savoring every morsel. His eyes remained wide open. He didn't submit to weariness; he didn't look up.
Shotaro, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and eyes half-lidded, seemed to wait like a student unsure of his test results.
Fatiba held her breath. She knew this ritual well. Her grandfather's silence was a sign that his mind was racing. That silence was his sharpest weapon—when he disapproved of something, he wouldn't say a word and would leave it untouched. When he liked something, he consumed it like this: no small talk, no theatrics, just raw appreciation.
When Abbas finally set the empty bowl down, the silence stretched out.
He didn't thank him. He didn't shower Shotaro with praise. He simply exhaled and observed, "You didn't overseason the eggs."
Shotaro raised an eyebrow. "I never overseason anything."
Abbas scrutinized him, his brow furrowing slightly as if he were a wise man surveying the horizon. "You cook as if it's your last meal."
Shotaro stood still for a moment, and then a smirk crept across his face. "And you eat like a man savoring his first meal."
They locked eyes—two different storms colliding at the same table.
Fatiba blinked. Once.
And suddenly, she realized, with an unsettling clarity, that something significant had just shifted.
"Did he just… befriend my grandfather?" she whispered in disbelief.
Her tone was almost like a breath rather than a question, as if her thoughts hadn't yet settled. "Did he really just make friends with my grandfather?" she wondered, unsure of who she was even talking to. Her fingers gripped the edge of the stool so tightly that they turned pale, her eyes wide from what she had just witnessed. She had seen it happen. How Abbas had sat down. How Shotaro had served him without the slightest hesitation. Their exchanges were like warriors trading their blades. In just a few brief moments, something ancient had occurred.
With a deliberate and almost solemn gesture, Abbas wiped his fingers on a cloth napkin, every motion taken with care, as if he were trying to preserve something precious. He looked at Shotaro, then turned back to Fatiba with a calm yet firm voice. He didn't elaborate on his meaning when he stated, "You're not moving too quickly." The air felt thick like smoke, heavy and unyielding.
"Thanks, Fatiba," he said, blinking, as if a light had been turned on in the room.
She still couldn't quite discern whether he was encouraging her or subtly warning her while dressed in courtesy. The old man's cryptic words were too overwhelming for her understanding.
Shotaro's smile wasn't fully formed; it was just a flicker on his face. He glanced at the pot, offered a half-smile, and then resumed his task, acting as if her grandfather didn't exist. As if he were alone in the kitchen. "Do you really need dessert to finish this snack?" he asked casually, already gathering ingredients like a magician disassembling spells. Making dessert at this hour seemed odd, yet reasonable.
Fatiba threw her hands in the air, exasperated. "Who in their right mind cooks dessert at this time?"
Abbas, unfazed, answered with calm confidence, "Why not?"
Fatiba stared, her mouth slightly agape. She looked from her grandfather's placid expression to Shotaro's relaxed demeanor—as if they had done this dance many times before. As if cooking at midnight and spontaneous bonding were just normal parts of a larger ritual she stumbled into. It felt surreal. Yet, witnessing them, it felt strangely… believable. Like her life had unexpectedly shifted into a different genre without her knowledge.
Shotaro cracked his knuckles. "Alright then. I'll make brownies."
He moved to the counter with that curious blend of focus and playfulness that always seemed to accompany him. He didn't rush. He measured each ingredient like it was a spell: four tablespoons of flour, four of sugar, two of cocoa, a pinch of salt, a splash of milk, some oil, and a dash of vanilla. Optional chaos—chocolate chips, nuts, maybe even a sprinkle of something mysterious.
"Wait—where did you learn to make brownies?" Fatiba asked, torn between suspicion and genuine curiosity.
Shotaro shrugged. "Not all of us have the luxury of not knowing how to cook for ourselves, Ms. Princess of a diamond company."
"You think I'm just a spoiled brat, don't you?"
"Exactly," he replied with a playful grin, enjoying the banter.
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, but didn't tell him to stop.
And Abbas—old, patient, and unreadable—observed Shotaro with the same quiet interest a general might show to a young soldier constructing a fort from nothing but mud and conviction. He didn't say a word. But his presence alone was significant. In his world, that meant everything.