Zenkichi just stared down at her, arms already folding tightly across his chest like he was bracing for another incoming wave of chaos. The way her cheeks were puffed up with noodles while she tried to talk only earned her a long, exasperated squint.

"Don’t talk with your mouth full, jeez," he muttered first, rolling his eyes with the dramatic flair of a man whose soul was aging in dog years.

He tilted his head back like he was asking the sky for strength, then looked back down at her, deadpan.

"...Ichinose happened."

He let it sit there. Like it was a weather event. Or a diagnosis.

Then, more muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear:

"I swear she’s genetically engineered to make my blood pressure spike. She starts saying words and my lifespan shortens."

But even with the griping, he reached over and nudged the fatty tuna box closer to her plate—still mindful, still fussing.