Delectable | O.Miya

° 006

"Good. Now, I think we can make a pretty good situation out of both of our businesses if we combine them— that little door that separates our kitchens, we open it up and work along side each other. Advertise each other's menus... ya know? They eat my onigiri then have some of your sweets for dessert, and vice-versa."

It didn't seem like a bad idea— as much as you hated to admit it. Truthfully, you'd take whatever you could get at this point if it meant saving your business.

"That works for me— as long as I still get to run my side of things. I don't want you thinking you can take over just because I'm agreeing to work with you."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He smirks, his attention focused on writing something down in his notepad— gray irises flickering playfully when he takes notice of you trying to peek over at what he's scribbled down on the paper.

"We'll draw up a contract to make things official, set up our rules and boundaries so that we both get what we want— sound fair?" He says diligently, ceasing his writing to make eye contact with you— his chin rested delicately in his palm as he awaits your response.

"Yeah, sounds good." You mutter, trying your hardest to not admire the way his biceps flex as he pulls himself out of his chair— fuck, you really needed to stop drinking this damn wine.

"You hungry?" He calls out from the kitchen, poking his head around the corner after finally ridding himself of that dumb hat, as he runs his fingers through his soft black hair.

He looks good like this, you think to yourself, the way his natural hair color contrasts with the cool gray of his eyes and milky complexion— anddd god, why were you thinking like this? You quickly get up out of your seat and grab your things, deciding that maybe you should just put an end to tonight's rather uncomfortable festivities.

Walking into the kitchen to inform Osamu that you were ready to leave, you see him meticulously rolling up a ball of rice— fingers deftly packing the sticky substance into a perfectly formed onigiri. He smiles when he notices you standing there, nothing you over to join him where he stands.

"Come here," he says— his tone soft yet commanding, "been working in a new recipe, want you to try it."

"Actually, I think I should—"

"We're partners now, y/n." He reiterates, slowly making his way over to you, onigiri in hand. "So, I really need your opinion."

"We can talk about this tomorrow, at wor— mmphh!"

Before you can finish your sentence, Osamu shoves a bite of food into your mouth— taking advantage of the way you were annoyingly running it, to slip a piece inside. His cheeks can't help but ignite at the way his thumb brushes against the soft plush of your lips, quickly retracting it before he lingers there a little too long.

You glare at him between chews, despite how delicious the flavors taste on your tongue. Osamu Miya was a lot of things, but being an amazing chef was definitely at the top of the list— right next to being a complete asshole, of course.

"What the fuck, Miya?" You gripe, after swallowing a sip of wine to chase down the food he had so forcefully shoved into your mouth.

"So, how was it?" He asks excitedly, his face beaming with pride just as it always did whenever he was able to witness someone tasting his cooking.

You huff in defeat, knowing you can't very well lie about it as you typically would. If you were going to do this with him, you had to put on your big girl panties and suck it up— after all, you didn't necessarily have to like the man, you just had to tolerate him for however long it would take to get your business off the ground and running.