Elias woke up to sunlight slicing through his curtains, brighter than it should've been. His phone, facedown on the nightstand, showed a time that made his stomach drop — way past when he usually started prepping dough. He muttered a curse, threw on the first shirt he found (flour already smeared across the hem), and stumbled into the shower. The water was too hot, and the soap smelled faintly like dish detergent because he forgot to buy new shampoo.
There was no time for breakfast. No time for coffee. His shoes were barely on his feet before he was out the door, his hair still damp and sticks to his neck. The quiet hum of the neighborhood morning greeted him — the sound of newspaper deliveries, the ramen shop's exhaust fan already running, and somewhere distant, the bark of a dog that always seemed annoyed to exist.
As Elias rushed past the ramen shop, the sliding door rattled open.
"Oi, Elias!" Kobayashi-san's voice was half-scold, half-laugh. "You're late, huh? Slept through your alarm again?"
Elias gave a sheepish nod, slowing just enough to offer a quick bow. "Sorry, Kobayashi-san — I need to open up, so—"
"Eat first." Kobayashi cut him off, stepping aside to reveal a freshly-prepared bowl of shoyu ramen sitting on the counter. Steam curled upward, carrying the deep scent of soy sauce, pork fat, and garlic into the cool air. An egg floated gently in the broth, its yolk glowing like a tiny sunrise.
Elias opened his mouth to refuse — but his stomach answered before he could speak, growling loud enough for Kobayashi to snort. "See? Even your gut's smarter than you."
With a sigh of surrender, Elias took a seat at the corner table, the same one he always ended up in when Kobayashi caught him like this. Chopsticks in hand, he stirred the noodles gently, the broth clinging to the pale strands. The first bite was almost too hot, but it tasted like home — rich and familiar, the kind of comfort only someone who's known you for decades can cook.
As he ate, Elias' mind wandered. It wasn't just the ramen that felt familiar. It was the rhythm of this — running late, getting ambushed with breakfast, the way Kobayashi pretended it was an inconvenience but always had the bowl waiting like clockwork. It had been like this since the bakery opened, and even before that, back when Elias was just the quiet kid who lived down the street with parents who never turned down a dinner invitation.
Kobayashi never said it aloud, but Elias knew. This was how the old man worried. Not with words, not with advice — just with extra noodles and perfectly soft eggs, placed in front of him without ceremony, like saying "I'm here" without ever having to speak it.
Elias finished the last sip of broth, warmth settling somewhere deeper than his stomach. He stood, bowing low in thanks, but Kobayashi only waved him off, muttering something about "next time, show up earlier so I don't have to babysit you."
The bell above Moonlight Crumbs' door jingled softly as Elias unlocked it a few minutes later. The bakery smelled faintly of flour and leftover citrus, the scent of yesterday lingering. Another late start, but somehow, it felt okay.
After all, some mornings belonged to Kobayashi's delicious ramen — the cookies could wait.