Delectable | O.Miya

° 006

"It's... pretty good. I— like it."

God, that was a lot harder than it seemed.

"Glad you think so. Maybe you could come up with something sweet to compliment it— we can market it as a pair." He smiles, satisfied with himself for his brilliant idea, and for the first time in what seems like forever, you can't help but to absentmindedly smile back at him.

"Is that— did you just smile at me?" He smirks, teasingly.

"Think you need to get your eyes checked, you are getting pretty old, ya know." You tease back, grabbing the rest of the onigiri from his hand to take another bite.

"I can teach you how to make 'em." He mentions, grabbing onto your arm gently to pull you closer to his work space. "Might be useful to have an extra hand. Of course, they won't be as good as mine, but maybe with enough training—"

"Move over." Your interrupt, shaking your arm from his grasp in fiery determination, to show Osamu that you were more than capable at building a flawless onigiri just as good— if not better— than him.

You wash your hands, leaving them a tad bit damp as you prepare to form your rice ball. Osamu hangs closely behind you, peering over your shoulder, watching your every move as if he were a dedicated teacher supervising his student.

"You should salt your hands too— It helps to season the rice a bit more and prevents it from stickin' to ya." He offers a piece of advice, to which you simply scoff.

"You act like I've never done this before." You spit, matter-of-factly. Of course, you've made onigiri dozens of times, although it wasn't your favorite so you've never made much effort to perfect it. Besides, baking was your thing— and you did that better then anyone you've ever known.

You continue to roll the rice in between your palms, growing seemingly more frustrated as bits and pieces of it began to crumble from your grasp while you attempt to shape it. Osamu can't help but chuckle, listening to the little huffs of annoyance that escape your lips.

Soon enough, his large, warm hands are enveloping your much smaller pair— applying light pressure as he works the rice tenderly through the aid of your own palms.

"Mmhmm, just like that." He hums from over your shoulder— the warmth of his breath on the shell of your ear sends a tingle throughout your entire body. "Not too hard, not too soft. Gotta find the sweet spot."

The rice sifts through your fingers as you accidentally squeeze a little too forcefully, at no fault of your own, since it was damn near impossible to work with Osamu's body pressed so closely to yours— your fingers almost intertwined with one another, and his deep voice cooing into your ear.

"Oops." He snickers, shaking off the remnants into the sick before continuing to wipe his hands clean. "You'll get it next time."

He sounds so smug about, but you can't help but want to turn around and kiss his stupid lips just to shut him up. What was wrong with you? Have you officially lost your last fucking brain cell?

You would rather eat dog shit than lock lips with Miya.... What the fuck was in that damn wine, anyways?

"It's getting late, I really need to get home." You're practically pleading at this point, but Osamu frowns upon your statement, and you can sense a rebuttal forming.

"Y/n, please—"

"What? You promised you'd take me back to my car. The meeting is over, I want to go home."

His brows furrow in discontent, eyes falling into a desolate gaze as he scans your face for any semblance of emotion. Though, you wear your mask proudly; you won't let your guard down like last time. He's already seen you cry countless times before, the last time being just the other night in his shop kitchen— it won't happen again.

"Now, Miya. I wanna go home."

"Why do you hate me so fuckin' much?" His words are fervent in the way they forcefully leave his lips, as if he didn't already know the reason being.

Your mouth parts slightly at his sudden outburst, partially in shock that it seemed to come completely out of left field, and partially in shock that he even has the audacity to ask such a question.

"Seriously?" You chuckle— a nervous habit for when things get too intense for your liking.

His sour expression tells you that he's completely serious, especially with the way his arms cage you in against the counter— determined to keep you there, face to face, until you give him a proper answer. You press your hand to his chest in attempts to push him away, but the way his heart beats wildly against the flat of your palm causes you to recoil. What was he so worked up about? Why would he even care?

He never cared before.

Did he?

His head drops down as he sighs in defeat— understanding full well that he isn't gonna get anything out of you tonight. Stepping aside, he grabs his keys and heads towards the door, holding it open for you to pass through. He hardly utters a single word more— leaving the two of you to endure another eerily silent car ride back to the parking lot of your respective shops.

When he pulls up beside your vehicle, you're slow to exit— unsure of why you seem to be stuck to the expensive leather of his seat. Were you waiting for him to say something? What would he even say? It was best to just gather your things and go— the tension was almost suffocating.

As soon as you step out of the car, he glances over at you one last time, hardly maintaining eye contact as he hides underneath the brim of his hat.

"See you at work tomorrow."