⊹ ₊It's raining ink!₊ ⊹

You bit down on the reaction before it could show. Hard. Until your molars ached and a muscle jumped near your temple, and until the embarrassment of being caught caring a little too much, the fear of the retaliation you knew was coming for doing so, and the frustration of knowing there was nothing you could do at this point to avoid it made your thoughts mix into the same, buzzing sound.

You stepped forward and opened the door for him—because you knew that was what he was waiting for—and the usually comforting chime of your bell seemed to laugh at you today as he went in first.

Inside, the last table of regulars was gathering their coats, laughing warmly as Anko and Yuzu thanked them for coming. The restaurant still held that after-service glow of warm lights and lingering steam. When they saw you, their faces lit up for a second, only to falter when they caught the exhaustion written across your expression.

A second later, they were doing a double-take at the man who had walked in ahead of you—the one they'd completely overlooked before.

It was almost subtle.

That expression of someone tasting something bitter in their dessert.

Then they were all polite, weary, bows to Karami, and quiet thanks to you, with worried eyes that lingered long enough to make you uneasy.

After the door slid shut behind them with a soft click, you turned to your girls.

Anko was wiping down the table with steady, careful strokes. Blissfully unaware.

Unlike Yuzu.

She, on the other hand, hadn't moved.

She stood with her arms crossed, her weight shifted forward slightly, and her eyes locked onto Karami with unfiltered scrutiny.

She didn't need introductions. She could read people the same way you read the grain of your fish. That posture, the angle of his chin. The economy of his movements. The way he surveyed the room without really taking it in.

And she knew who he was. She hadn't forgotten about the sleepless nights. The panic. The way you once admitted, voice thin and ashamed, that rejecting him felt dangerous. That confronting him felt like stepping into traffic and hoping the car would brake.

And on top of all that, your shoulders were locked so tight she could see the tremor beneath your jacket as tiny shivers rippled through you—adrenaline. Trauma humming under your skin.

And she fucking hated it.

"That was a long smoke break," she deadpanned, her gaze never leaving him.

"Yeah," Anko said softly, still wiping, then she looked up, and her smile faltered. "We had to close without...you."

Karami walked further inside with his hands still clasped behind his back. Unlike at Miya's, he actually looked around this time, but there was no light in his eyes.

"This is way smaller than I imagined," he said lightly. "I pictured somethin'… greater, for our culinary school's brute gem."

Your expression didn't soften. It dulled.

"Cut the theatrics, Karami-senpai," you replied evenly. "You probably looked up my restaurant before coming here. You knew I wasn't fine dining."

A breath of a laugh escaped him.

"Still," he said, half-turning toward you with a thin smile. "I expected a little more."

His gaze shifted to Anko and Yuzu.

"This yer only staff?"

"That's Yuzu for ya, taxidermy," she snapped.

He assessed her insult by looking at her the way someone might look at gum stuck to their shoe. You exhaled slowly.

"Yuzu..."

"Huh," Karami mused. "It talks back."

Yuzu's eyes widened.

"Who does this clown—"

"Yuzu," you cut her out. "Go home. I'll close the shop."

Her head snapped toward you, wide-eyed. But the moment Karami shifted slightly, her focus returned to him instantly, like he was a venomous snake, and any movement of his meant he would bite.

"Are ya insane?" she demanded. "I'm not leavin' you alone with this psychopath."

Karami's eyebrows lifted up.

"Yuzu—"

"No way. I'm stayin'. I don't trust this dude."

"Yuzu, please!"

Silence fell for a couple of seconds.

"Please..."

You looked at Anko, pleading with her. And she looked back at you with the dread of a person who had also been in culinary school. The dread of a person who knew exactly what kind of person Karami was. Who knew that the more Yuzu resisted, insulted, and fought back—even if she intended to protect you—the heavier would be the hand that held the knife above your nape.

And she understood you didn't want them to witness that.

"Yuzu-chan," she called gently, grabbing her hand. Her voice was soft, but hid steel underneath. "Come here."

Yuzu pursed her lips. Anger and worry burned in her eyes.

You exhaled shakily, relief flickering through you.

"Thank you, Anko-cha—"

"We're not leaving," she cut in. "We're just standing by."

Only then, Yuzu huffed and allowed herself to be guided to the counter. They stood there together as a silent line of defense—visible. Watching.

"Isn't that how evaluations should go?" Anko asked calmly when she felt venomous eyes focused on her, meeting Karami's gaze. "Isn't staff evaluated too?"

He held her stare for a moment. Long enough for her to look away first. He smiled, satisfied, and shrugged, taking a seat at the table she had just cleaned and dragging a finger slowly across the surface as if testing for dust.

"I guess so," he said lazily. "But let me tell ya. So far, I ain't impressed."

His eyes lifted to you.

"Yer staff sure respects you, Chef."

Your gaze narrowed on him, too drained to bite back at this point.

"Are you going to order?"

"Bring me yer best." He gestured dismissively with his hand. "You saw how this works."

"I'll get started."

You inhaled, reuniting strength, and walked away. But your body stopped before you could get even close to the kitchen.

Because from the chair she owned every time after closing—where she hopped up every night, circled twice, and slept like she'd booked it in advance until the cleaning was done—

Nigiri stretched, letting out a half-purr, half-mewl that rose like a question.

She plopped down and padded toward you with her tail high and fur still fluffed up from sleep, unaware of the landmine she had just stepped on.

Both Anko and Yuzu closed their eyes for a second.

"Fuck..." Yuzu whispered.

Anko moved quickly, bending down and scooping the small fluff into her arms before she could wander too close to the venomous snake sitting by the window. Nigiri settled against her shoulder immediately, purring without concern.

Karami scoffed.

"Is this a joke?"

But that was all.

Even if you braced for impact. For the ridicule, for the lecture about professionalism, hygiene, and distractions. Even if you were waiting for the deliberate humiliation.

Nothing came.

And that felt even worse.

"Health code," you said, still not turning around. "She's not allowed in the kitchen."

Anko nodded quickly. "She stays in the dining area."

Karami exhaled slowly through his nose.

You didn't look at him. Didn't want to know what his silence meant—just walked into the kitchen, counting to ten, and going over the list of ingredients in your head.

You knew exactly what you were going to make for him.

"Emotional support sushi" was the way Anko called it.

It was simple, really. Nothing special. An assortment of sushi rolls and nigiri, tamagoyaki, and a bowl of miso. But it meant a lot to you.

It was comfort and discipline. It was memory wrapped in flavor.

It was your grandma's recipe.

So even if it was simple, whenever you made it, it always felt less like just a dish and more like an offering.

And as you rinsed your hands, letting the water run over your fingers, you had to swallow the knot in your throat when you thought of cooking it for him.

For him, out of anyone else.

But you quickly quieted the anger down. Because anger had never belonged in this dish. And as you sliced, folded, and pressed the rice in your hands, you let the food remind you who you were. Even if just for a second.

Even if you knew the moment you stepped outside and served him this plate, the doubt would come back and eat you whole.

Here, in your kitchen, the rhythm of the knife steadied your pulse, the salmon yielded cleanly beneath the blade, just as it should. The tuna shone deep and unmarred, and you shaped the nigiri with intention rather than speed. The tamagoyaki came together in thin, careful layers—rolled, brushed, folded again—until it held its shape like something patient.

And you couldn't help but wonder if this was the way Osamu had felt, too.

You hoped that even with all that pressure bearing down on him—even with the weight of Karami pressing against his shoulders—his hands hadn't shaken. That he had still found that steadiness he wore so effortlessly. That flow state he slipped into as if it were stitched into his bones.

That calmness he carried—the one that used to infuriate you—now felt almost... beautiful.

How silly it felt to think about him even now.

How ridiculous that the very cause of your desperation (because defending him had left you in this position to begin with) was now the image soothing the frantic beat of your heart.

His image helped to plate each piece with intention.

Spacing mattered. Breathing room mattered. You needed that perfection to summon calm.

But nothing crowded. Nothing competed. Every element was allowed to exist without apology.

It felt symbolic. Of you, of him—of how the relationship between you two had changed and evolved.

And you prayed—as you brushed the rolls with nikiri, the glaze catching the light like lacquer. As you poured the miso into its bowl and watched the steam curl upward in soft spirals, like a steadying breath you tried to borrow for yourself.

You prayed.

For your grandmother to bless this plate. For Osamu to lend you strength.

Then you took one last breath in and prepared to face war.

You didn't explain your dish as you set it in front of Karami. Osamu's evaluation had already made it painfully clear that it wasn't needed. This wasn't about technique. This wasn't a real evaluation.

Just a dissection of his former kouhais. Food for his ego.

So you placed the tray down carefully, aligned the porcelain one last time, and stepped back. Stood there as he ate.

His first bite was salmon nigiri, and you watched as his eyelids actually relaxed for half a second.

Not dramatically. But just enough for you to see it. And for that stubborn hope to flutter.

And then—deliberately—he reset. His gaze cooled. His posture straightened, and just like that, the mask slid back into place.

He continued with practiced coldness.

Tamagoyaki.

Maki.

Miso.

Chewing slowly. Unemotionally.

Anko had gone still near the counter, and the softness had drained from her face entirely to be replaced with dread. Yuzu stood beside her, with her jaw tight and fingers twitching at her sides. Anko's hand wrapped around her wrist without looking—grounding. Restraining.

You kept your breathing even.

When he finished tasting everything, he dabbed his mouth with the napkin and gestured lazily toward the chair across from him.

"Okay, Y/N. Have a seat." When you didn't move, his gaze flicked up. "What is wrong with you?"

The edge in his voice had dulled—replaced with something almost analytical, almost... curious in his tone.

It caught you a little off guard.

"Ever since I saw you again, I can't help but notice… yer not the same."

"What do you—"

"Yer losin'—" he interrupted. "Against Miya."

"Eh?"

"His restaurant is bigger. It's performin' better." He paused, tilting his head at you. "You were correct. I did look up your place. His, too. And even with the short time he's been here, he's already outsellin' you."

The word shouldn't have hurt.

You had already made peace with it, hadn't you?

You had watched Osamu build something solid. Honest. Watched him juggle three onigiri orders and two hot pans with a line out the door. You had admired it. Respected it.

Loved it.

So why did the word losing still sting?

Ah, right.

It was pride.

It wasn't the numbers. Or the size of his restaurant. It was the space between you.

It was the fact that you didn't want to lose to him. That you wanted to be someone he could look at and see an equal. A rival—not something gentler. Not something smaller.

Karami's voice slithered back into your thoughts.

You've changed.

Had you?

You'd told yourself you had matured. That you had chosen warmth over coldness. Community over competition.

But what if—

What if that was just the story you told yourself because you couldn't keep up with him?

What if loving Osamu had sanded down your ambition? What if defending him hadn't been protectiveness, but proof you had already accepted being second?

Your stomach twisted.

You didn't envy him. You didn't resent him. Not anymore, at least. But somewhere deep inside, a younger version of you—the one who used to fight her dad for TV rights to watch Iron Chef Japan, the one Kanemori-sensei had trained, the one who used to win—

...Still wanted to.

And wanting that felt ugly.

So you buried it. Your pulse stuttered once—then steadied.

"If Osamu's restaurant is doing better than mine," you replied evenly, "then I guess I am losing."

Yuzu's fingers tightened under Anko's grip.

"But I don't care," you continued. "That just means he's a better chef than me right now. That I have something to learn. And that's not a bad thing."

The silence that followed tasted metallic.

Karami's expression shifted slowly, lips curling into a snarling frown.

Disgust.

"I knew it," he said quietly. "You went soft."

Your spine stayed straight.

"The Y/N I knew had the potential to become one of the top chefs in this country. She was cold as steel. Ambitious." His eyes dragged over you, over the warm wood, the soft lighting. "There's no ambition anymore. No drive."

He gestured vaguely at the restaurant.

"This?" he scoffed. "This is the ghost of what Kanemori-sensei saw in you. I wonder what he would think if he saw you right now. I wonder how he would react to see all of this wasted potential."

That hit. And the poise, the balance you had managed to regain, was gone in an instant. The buzzing started low in the back of your skull, but was rising slowly.

Kanemori-sensei.

His steady hands correcting your grip. His quiet praise. The way he had once said, "Don't dull yourself for anyone."

You let the words land and settle like sediment in water, clouding everything. Your breath caught—microscopic, but noticeable, and your hand twitched once, then shot up to fix a non-existent wrinkle on your sleeve.

Karami's lips curved almost imperceptibly as he leaned forward, lazily.

"And let's address the elephant in the room, shall we?" he continued lightly. "An animal in the dinin' area?"

"People love Nigiri," Yuzu snapped, taking a step forward, and Anko's hand tightened around her wrist immediately.

"Oh yeah?" Karami said mildly. He reached toward his plate and plucked at nothing, holding up invisible air between his fingers. "Do they love cat hair in their food, too?"

You fixed your sleeve again. That stubborn wrinkle licking cruelly at your skin.

"Also, yeah," he continued, unfazed. "Miya's staff is obedient. Professional. Unlike yours."

His eyes flicked toward the counter.

"Who insulted me the moment I stepped in. And still look like they want to stab me."

Yuzu did not deny it. And the way Anko was practically restraining her at this point did nothing but to prove him right.

"I'm being soft on you, really," he said, turning back to you. "If this were any other place besides my sweet old kouhai's restaurant, you'd be ruined."

Your nails dug into your palm. Hard enough to sting. The stupid wrinkle just refused to smooth out.

"I mean—the disrespect!" He shook his head. "You used to say not everyone who's liked is respected. Now look at you. Lettin' the fate of yer dream sit in the hands of your friends."

The word dripped, derogatory.

"Lettin' yer rival get all the glory. Even goin' so far as to defend him."

The buzzing grew louder.

"It wouldn't surprise me if yer restaurant ends up closed down because you decided to lose to Osamu Miya. All because you settled."

His gaze traveled over your face slowly.

"A true shame, what has become of you."

You stood there.

Still.

Like Osamu had.

Shoulders back. Chin level. Expression composed.

But inside—

Inside, it felt like standing in a kitchen where every burner had been turned on at once, and every insecurity you had carefully trimmed and portioned was suddenly thrown back into the pan and flambéd just for show.

Losing.

Soft.

Ghost.

Kanemori-sensei.

Waste.

The buzzing inside you had grown so loud it almost became quiet—like standing too close to a waterfall until the roar turned into a dull, distant hum. Your fingers had gone cold. Your chest felt hollowed out.

You imagined this was what fish felt like once cleaned. Opened. Gutted. Washed.

Karami's lips curved slowly, then he looked at Anko and pointed to the plate in front of him.

"Can I have this to go, please?"

Anko dropped Nigiri, then moved immediately—swift and efficient, grabbing his plate before he could even touch it again. She disappeared into the kitchen without a word. The swing of the door was loud.

"At least the food is something he'll never win at. All the more sad yer choosin' to lose against him," he said, plopping a piece of Nigiri into his mouth.

His eyes narrowed at your lack of response.

"You know," he continued, chewing casually, "for someone who tried so hard to clock me earlier at Miya's place… yer not takin' criticism very well."

The words were light.

Playful.

Cruel.

Yuzu made a strangled sound, but even if Anko wasn't there to restrain her anymore, she didn't move.

Mostly because your hand had slowly let go of your sleeve, and your eyes weren't panicking anymore.

"You were so confident," he went on. "So righteous. What happened? Where'd that fire go?"

But something inside you had shifted.

Not warmer or anything, not even close to comfort.

Just... Colder.

The spiral didn't stop—but you felt like you'd stepped outside of it. Like you were watching your own panic from behind glass, and decided it just... wasn't worth it.

He wanted a reaction. He wanted tears. Anger. A crack in your composure he could widen.

Instead, when you looked at him, your eyes were steady.

Flat.

Empty in a way that wasn't necessarily strong—just done.

"Get out."

He blinked, smile faltering a little.

"Excuse me?"

"If that's all you had to say," you continued evenly, "if I'm such a disappointment… then you're just sitting here wasting your time with me."

As if summoned, the kitchen door swung open. Anko emerged with a to-go bag already packed, stapled neatly at the top, and set it in front of Karami without a word.

Lightning fast.

The bright smiley face printed on the bag and the "Thank you!" in bold red letters looked almost mocking in the heavy quiet of the room.

Karami looked at the bag, then at you. And something unreadable flickered across his face—annoyance? Amusement? Calculation?

You didn't care anymore. His venom had already reached your system, and now, you just wanted to die in feverish, cold peace.

"Get out, Karami-senpai."

The honorific tasted like ash.

Yuzu stepped forward this time—not aggressively, just enough to make it clear that if he didn't move on his own, he would be escorted out.

Karami stood slowly, took the bag, and looked at you one last time—searching, perhaps, for the girl he used to know. The steel. The ambition. The spark.

All he found was a closed door.

"Disappointin'," he said lightly.

The bell above the door chimed once as he left. And the sound echoed longer than it should have.

Yuzu watched him leave like a sniper tracking a target.

She followed his every step through the front window, arms crossed tight over her chest, jaw locked. When he reached the end of the street, she actually moved closer to the glass to keep him in sight.

"Okay," she said flatly. "Now we follow him home and fill his exhaust pipe with expandable foam while he sleeps."

"That'd be murder, Yuzu-chan," Anko replied gently, though she pressed her lips together to hide a small, traitorous giggle.

Yuzu smiled, big and wicked, still looking out the window to where Karami had disappeared.

"Good riddance though, right?" she said. "You really clocked his shit back there, Y/N. That's exactly how ya deal with a narcissist."

She turned, and when she saw you, her grin disappeared instantly.

"Y/N?"

You hadn't moved from where you stood.

The buzzing hadn't stopped when he left. It had only changed pitch. And without his presence to brace against, it spread.

"He's right," you whispered.

Your voice sounded foreign. Smaller than you meant it to.

Yuzu blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing he said was a lie."

"What?"

You swallowed.

"It's true. No restaurant should have an animal on the premises."

"Animal?" Yuzu's face twisted. "Are ya hearin' yerself? Nigiri is way more than an animal and you know it. The regulars love her. You love her." Her voice sharpened. "Are ya really gonna let that prick break ya like this? Gross! This isn't you!"

"You're right!" The words tore out of you louder than intended. "This isn't me."

Both of them froze.

"I've gone soft," you continued. The thoughts that had been buzzing quietly were spilling over. "I don't know when or how, but my priorities went astray. I lost my north. This isn't the chef I was supposed to be." Your throat tightened. "I'm nothing but a waste of talent."

Anko's face fell. And in your spiral, you hadn't even heard the bell as someone else entered. Hadn't registered the shift in air.

"What bullshit am I hearin'?"

The voice came from behind you.

You turned to see a very pissed-looking Osamu Miya near the entrance, the door still half-open behind him.

"You've 'gone soft'?" he asked with a scoff. "Is that softness in the room with us?"

You turned again, avoiding his eyes.

"Not now, Miya."

"No." He stepped fully inside, letting the door shut behind him. His eyes were locked on you. Angry. "Realize how yer talkin' right now. It's pissin' me off."

"It's none of your business."

"Thought ya wouldn't care what that clown had to say 'bout yer food."

"I never said I didn't care, Miya." You saw the way his expression changed when you looked at him with watery, fragile eyes, and you looked away from him immediately, mistaking his concern for pity, and drying your eyes before the tears even had time to fall.

"And he said the food was fine. I'm the one who's wrong. I'm not the chef I was supposed to be. I'm not reaching my potential, and I don't know what to do." Your voice cracked despite your effort. "I'm pathetic."

"What the fuck are you on?! Can you stop sayin' that about yerself? Where's the chef who defended me back in my kitchen?"

"You did what?" Yuzu cut in, suddenly cautious as she watched the tension coil tighter between you.

You barely heard her as you stomped toward Osamu, narrowing your eyes up at him.

"What, am I not cute anymore, Miya? Not that strong? Insecure?" The words tasted ugly even as you said them. "Am I giving you the ick? Good. That way you can put that obsession you have with me to rest and leave me the fuck alone."

He stayed silent for a moment. And his voice sounded... small, when he spoke again.

Hurt.

"Is that really what ya want?"

The question wasn't angry or defensive. It was honest.

Yuzu looked between the two of you, eyes widening slightly as she realized this was no longer about Karami.

"Should we… leave right now?" she muttered to Anko.

You and Osamu both glanced at her from the corners of your eyes.

Her brows shot up.

"Ookaay," she said quickly. "Don't tell me twice, damn."

She grabbed Anko's sleeve and practically dragged her toward the kitchen, muttering something about "not gettin' paid enough for this amount of emotional warfare in a single night."

The door swung shut behind them.

When it was just you and him in the restaurant, silence settled between you.

Osamu's eyes jumped from side to side, restless but fixed on the floor. Thoughts whisked too fast. Doubts rising.

He had been sure.

After you defended him earlier, he had been certain you felt it too—that whatever simmered between you wasn't one-sided. That the tension wasn't just rivalry. That it wasn't just him plating his heart and waiting.

But now you were talking like he irritated you. Like his feelings were an inconvenience. And there was only so much rejection a man could swallow before it started to taste bitter.

Only so much pride he could chew before it turned humiliating.

He looked up. Even now, you refused to meet his eyes. Your gaze stayed fixed on the floor, brows drawn tight, lashes glossy with unshed tears. You looked… small. Angry, but small. None of the huge aura that always surrounded you.

It worried him.

"What did Karami say... That left ya like this?"

He saw the way your eyes widened. Not expecting his question.

You folded your arms around yourself, fingers digging into your sleeves as if holding your ribs together would stop something from spilling out. You said nothing.

Osamu sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"'Course ya ain't tellin' me." He turned toward the door. "I give up."

A small spark of panic settled in your chest.

"Don't leave," your brain screamed. "Please don't leave."

You hated how desperate it sounded in your own head. Hated how your throat tightened. Hated that the idea of him walking out felt worse than anything Karami had said.

You opened your mouth, drew a breath in. And forced the words to come out.

"He said I was a waste of talent."

Osamu stopped by the door.

"He said my food was the same, but my restaurant wasn't what he expected. That I'd gone soft. That I lost against you, and I'm losing myself. That Kanemori-sensei would be disappointed in me."

Osamu looked at you over his shoulder.

He saw the way you clung to your arms. The way your nails pressed crescents into your uniform. The gloss in your eyes and the stubborn pout trembling at your lips made something murderous flicker through him.

"That motherfucker…"

You shook your head.

"He's right," you muttered.

Osamu turned fully around.

"No, he ain't."

The immediate defense should have helped you. It did—just a little. It gave you some comfort, but it wasn't louder than the self-deprecating speech in your head.

"He is," you insisted, voice cracking. "And the fact I feel like this proves it."

You swallowed hard.

"Back in culinary school… I was different. I had an objective. I was focused. I didn't let anyone get to me."

"Or close to ya," he said quietly.

You shook your head.

"That's not important. I had potential. Kanemori-sensei said it. Everyone said it. And now… I don't know what happened. Back then… I was better."

That was the part you hadn't said aloud until now.

Losing to him hurt because you weren't supposed to.

You had built yourself on being dangerous. Fast. Hungry.

Back in school, competition had been oxygen. It had kept you alive. You sharpened yourself against him like a blade against stone, convinced that as long as you stayed ahead—emotionally distant, professionally ruthless—you would never lose your edge.

But somewhere between rivalry and this… whatever this was… you had softened.

And when he won, it felt like you had traded your ambition for something weaker. Something vulnerable. Something that made your hands shake and your focus splinter.

Osamu stepped closer.

"Did ya forget how horrible it was?"

You looked up at him, startled.

"Did ya forget how miserable we all felt? We talked about that recently, remember? It was terrifyin'. Every damn day."

His brow furrowed, shaking his head.

"Did ya forget how many of our classmates ended up quittin'? How many of them ended up depressed? Suicidal? Hooked on coke?"

He gestured toward the door, anger flashing in his eyes.

"Ya see how that fucker had his hand on our throats? How scared we were of him?"

You looked away from him again. He walked up to you and reached a hand out. He hesitated inches away from your face, but finally decided to bite the bullet and gently cupped your cheek.

He could take one last rejection. One last bite was all he needed to finally back off.

Except you didn't. You didn't reject him, or bite, or pull away. You melted into the touch, leaning into his hand.

Because you needed it. Because it was working. Because he was helping.

Osamu drew in a breath at the sight, and took your response as a green light. Allowed himself to cup your face with his other hand and gently force you to look at him.

"We survived culinary school, Y/N. Yer not failin'—yer healin'."

His brows furrowed. "And what’s this bullshit about yer restaurant?" he asked, voice soft. "This place is amazin'. Yer regulars love ya, girls. It feels intimate, private—like home. Would ya really sacrifice this just to work as a chef somewhere else? To be a dictator or a slave? It surprises me ya let that idiot talk about yer restaurant like that."

"I don't know—"

"Well, I do. Ya said it yerself. Karami's not even a real critic. He didn't even work as a cook when he graduated, for cryin' out loud. Went straight to hatin'. He's just a psychopath that gets off on power—and yer lettin' him talk like he knows you."

You snorted, cringing a little at yourself and avoiding his eyes again, trying to look down—but only causing your cheeks to press further into his hands.

You looked too cute like that. He felt his pulse picking up, just now realizing he had your face in his hands—that he could lean in just a bit and it would be enough to eat your words right off your lips.

He didn't, though.

Holding to the last strains of restraint.

"But what if…" you started.

He shook his head. "Stop. Seriously. Stop lettin' him get to ya. Stop talkin' that way about yerself." He caught your scowl and mistook it for something else. "And I'm not sayin' that because I think it's not cute."

Your eyes widened as you looked back up at him.

"Or because you can't be insecure. Or because it gives me the ick. It just…" He closed his eyes for a second. "It hurts to hear ya talk about yerself like that."

Your breath hitched.

"Ya don't get to call yerself a waste," he continued, softer now, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks—careful and incredibly grounding. "Not after everythin' ya survived. Not after everythin' ya built."

You swallowed hard, eyes burning.

"You don't know that," you whispered. "You don't know if I just chose the easier road with this place… If I just… settled."

Osamu's jaw tightened.

"I don't think this is settlin'," he said immediately. Then he stopped himself, slower now, choosing each word with care. "I think this is you finally becomin' what ya always were. Not the potential. Not the cold you."

His gaze softened as his grey eyes searched for yours.

"Home. This place feels like home."

Silence stretched between you again. Thick and fragile.

You could hear your own breathing—uneven and shallow. You could feel the distant buzzing of the bees in your head. And the warmth of his hands seeping into your skin. Grounding. Soft. Impossibly calming.

"I'm so scared…" you admitted, the words trembling on their way out. "I'm scared I ruined something I'll never get back by letting that asshole get to me. I'm scared because I still believe him a little. That I've gone soft. And that if I hadn't, I'd be… I'd be different. Better."

Osamu exhaled through his nose, something pained flickering across his expression as he studied the curve of your face.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I'm scared too."

Your eyes snapped back to his.

"But not because of that guy," he added quickly. "Because of you."

His thumbs stilled.

"Because… I don't wanna be someone ya think ya gotta push away to prove somethin' to yerself. I don't think I could go back to how we were. Pretendin' I hate you. Pretendin' I don't…" He swallowed. "Pretendin' I don't want this."

Your eyes widened as the confession hung between you. Naked. Raw.

And you felt your chest tighten so painfully that, for a second, you thought you might die.

"I'm... Sorry."

You saw the way his eyes screwed shut at that, his mouth setting into a grimace. Like you'd punched him. Like you'd rejected him.

But when his grip softened and his hands threatened to leave your face, the desperation for his touch surged again. You put your own hands over his without even thinking, not letting them fall.

"I just—I don't wanna hurt you," you said, barely louder than a breath. "I don't know what I want, or how to be this person and still be me."

You probably weren't making any sense now. But Osamu just pressed his forehead against yours, letting out a frustrated sigh. Your heartbeat picked up impossibly fast as his breath brushed your lips, and your gaze dropped involuntarily to his. They looked like something meant to be ruined—bitten into, smudged, tasted until there was nothing left but sweetness on your tongue.

His voice fell to a whisper.

"Whatever ya are now? Whatever yer becomin'? It's still you."

Your breath mingled with his. You could feel the tremor in his hands now—the restraint, the hesitation, the silent question.

And you knew if you retreated, he'd let you. You knew he wouldn't push anymore.

But instead of doing that, your greed got the best of you.

You didn't know what you wanted. You just knew you wanted him close. Impossibly closer. Your hands slid over his and up his forearms, rising onto your toes to chase the touch of his lips.

But Osamu stilled completely, breathing your name out like a warning and a plea all at once.

You looked up at him and saw the worry etched into his brows, the softness in his eyes, the way he was holding himself back.

Beautiful.

That was all you could think.

Osamu looked absolutely beautiful like this. But also a little sad. Like he expected you to pull back again. Like he was bracing for it.

But your greed was hungry—and a little cruel. Greed didn't apologize for wanting. Greed didn't feel guilty for taking.

As your noses brushed, his breath was shaky and warm against your lips.

"Osamu…"

A single brush of your lips on his was enough to show you that, even if your greed was its own kind of beast, there was no beast like Osamu's gluttony.

"C'mere."

His hands left your face to grip the plush of your hips. A quiet gasp slipped from your lips at the sudden shift in him—a gasp he swallowed with desperate heat as he kissed you.

A pained groan tore from him at the first taste of your mouth.

"Fuck," he breathed, voice unsteady. "I've been wantin' to do that for way too long."

He pushed you back until your hand reached behind you to brace against the counter. You let him deepen the kiss, let him lick, filthily into your mouth, trying to keep up with his fevered pace until your breath grew as heavy as his. His hands wasted no time slipping under your shirt, mapping your sides, squeezing lightly, brushing warm palms over your skin—all to swallow up those sweet little sounds you were making for him and just for him.

You felt his knee parting your legs and snuggling way too close to where you so desperately wanted him. He dragged his mouth down to your neck, kissing and licking in slow, hungry strokes. You clung to his shoulders, breath coming in broken pants. One of his hands slid up to cup your breast, teasing the hardened peak through the fabric of your bra, and your knees nearly buckled.

But just before you let yourself go—before you gave in completely—the rational part of your brain forced its way in. The anxiety that followed.

A flash of something ugly.

A beautiful night. Wet kisses. Your heart bursting open.

Then an empty bed. An indifferent stare. A silent phone.

A buzzing in your head that might never leave.

You pushed at his shoulders, trying to peel him off you, but his frame barely shifted.

"Miya—"

He knew that tone. Knew what you were about to say. So he pressed his thigh more firmly between your legs, dragging a helpless moan from you.

"Mi—ya… haah. We're in my restaurant."

"Don't," he growled against your neck, only pulling back to capture your lips again.

You melted for a second—a helpless sound slipping from you as his hand tightened over your chest and his leg pressed forward once more.

"Miya—listen to me."

He pulled back this time, swallowing hard, nodding once.

"I'm listenin'."

But he wasn't. His eyes were fixed on your mouth, half-lidded and dark, already pussy drunk without even touching you yet.

God, you almost gave in again.

"No, you're not. Listen—"

He leaned in to chase your lips, but you held him back with your hands against his shoulders.

"Osamu." Your voice went firm. That got his attention. "I don't know what you think you feel—"

His eyes narrowed.

"Right. 'Cause you do."

"I do! Look—"

"So yer sayin' you don't want me?"

"Yes—I mean. No. I mean—fuck." You exhaled sharply. "You—we—once we… Let's not ruin a possible business partnership and a good friendship over the heat of the moment. You don't even like me—not really. I just piss you off and that—"

"I like that ya piss me off."

"No. That makes you horny. Once you sleep with me, whatever stupid spell you're under will break, and you'll hate me again."

"If that was all this was, I wouldn't be standin' here arguin' with you. I just told ya I can't hate you anymore. I'm way past that."

You let out a shaky breath at that, and it made him smirk faintly. You'd always hated how expressive his lips were. Now you hated how badly you wanted them on you.

"You know what I think, sweetheart?” he murmured, leaning in, letting his lips brush yours as he talked. "I think yer scared."

"What?"

"Yeah. I think yer scared of tryin' with me. Ya scared of gettin' hurt."

You looked away, and his eyes softened when you did.

"But listen," he continued. "I know I look like I don't care, and that makes ya nervous. I know I'm an asshole the size of a truck. And ya are too. Yer fussy and controllin' and mean and an anxious wreck most of the time. And I ain't sayin' that like it's a problem, 'cause you know what? I really fuckin' like that about you."

"Miya..."

You shook your head faintly, avoiding his eyes again, gaze dropping to the floor. His hand slid from your waist back to your face, fingers warm as they cupped your cheek. He dipped his head to chase your eyes—half forcing you to look at him, half searching for you himself.

"I do. Ya don't get to tell me how I feel, 'cause that's for me to decide, aight?" His thumb dragged slowly against your skin. "I like that yer an asshole. And I like bein' an asshole with ya. Way more than to ya."

That earned him a shaky, huff of a laugh from you. He smiled at the sound, lifting your chin a little higher, his eyes narrowing just slightly.

"Although I do gotta say..." His voice dipped, teasing and thick all at once. "When ya look at me like I'm trash on the sidewalk? It gets me goin' pretty good. But that’s just 'cause I'm a sick fuck."

He grimaced faintly at himself, then forced a little distance between your faces. It almost hurt to watch him do it. To see the restraint settle over him like something heavy.

You watched his eyes dance all over your face. Over your chest, rising and falling unsteadily. Over your eyes, half-lidded and glossy. Over your lips, swollen and bitten.

His eyes softened, and he let out a defeated sigh and closed them, as if depriving them of the sight.

"But I get it," he said, quieter now. "If ya don't really want this, lemme know and I'll back off. I'm a sick fuck, but I'm not a monster. And I know right now we're… not exactly in the best headspace to… yeah."

You swallowed. Your heart was still pounding, your hands trembling faintly where they rested against his chest. You could feel the fast beating of his heart under your fingertips.

"…I need some time."

Osamu didn't react right away. No sigh, no sharp inhale, no flicker of irritation. Just a quiet pause, like he was letting the words settle properly instead of rushing to fill the space.

"…Alright," he said simply.

That was it.

No are you sure? No how much time? No wounded pride disguised as humor.

Just acceptance.

Something in your chest cracked at that—at how easily he gave it to you.

"I'm not sayin' I'm goin' anywhere," he added. "Just… take what ya need, yeah?"

You nodded, throat tight.

And then, before you could overthink it, before fear could grab the steering wheel again, your fingers curled over the spot wher his heart was as you spoke.

"…Can I ask... For another kiss?"

His brow lifted slightly, and the ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth.

"You kiss me, then fight me, then ask me for time, and now ya want another kiss?" He sounded fond, but a little undone. "Ya really throw me for a loop sometimes."

You huffed a breathy laugh, eyes dropping to his collarbone.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Osamu exhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself. And when he stepped closer this time, it wasn't with urgency—it was careful and deliberate.

"Don't be," he murmured, cupping your face again.

This kiss was nothing like the first.

No clash of teeth. No hunger snapping tight. No war of gluttony and greed.

His free hand came up to your side, resting there instead of gripping, and his thumb brushed small, grounding circles into your cheek. He kissed you like he had nowhere else to be, like time wasn't chasing him for once. His lips moved over yours in slow indulgence, shifting from your upper to your lower lip, savoring, giving each little sucks and bites that made your breath shake and left you wondering for how long he would torture them.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. You watched the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and your stomach tightened the way it did when you smelled caramelizing sugar.

"Better?" he asked quietly.

You nodded, eyes closing, breathing steadier now.

"Yeah… thank you."

A quiet beat passed.

Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he moved away from you and glanced around the empty restaurant.

"Need help cleanin' up?"

You smiled with still-warm lips—small, tired, and real.

"…Yeah. I'd like that, thanks."

He nodded once, already reaching for an apron.

And the beat of your heart didn't slow as you begged it to with a hand over your chest. The heat didn't disappear.

It just settled.

Like a promise instead of a question.

Next chapter↪ (coming soon!)

He was far harsher with Osamu, who cooked on instinct, on soul, and on stubborn grit. Who didn't always care to explain why something worked as long as it did. Who had made a bad habit of questioning Karami's critiques—of his dishes or others'—as if he had any right to, as if he wasn't undermining his authority every time he opened his mouth. (Something you used to roll your eyes at back then, but thinking now, you probably respected a little.)

So naturally, because wounding Karami's pride had always been a death sentence, Osamu received the worst of him. Cutting remarks disguised as critiques, standards raised just high enough to sting, and evaluations that sounded less like a professional assessment of his dishes and more like personal jabs to his character.

You, on the other hand, were different.

And so you were treated differently.

You didn't cook on instinct. You rejected shortcuts and chased precision. You weren't 'chill'—not even a little. You were obsessive to a fault, and it aligned with Karami's philosophy in a way that felt… validating.

And at the time, his approval had felt like a victory. Another point against Osamu. Another thing you were better at.

You hadn't noticed the way Karami's attention lingered until much later—until he invited you out to dinner. Casual... Polite... Easy enough to refuse.

And you had. Just as politely. Not enough time, not enough interest in him (or anyone on that note) to put your ambition on hold.

You also felt a little intimidated by him. He could be terrifying on occasion. Like his composure was a fluke, like he could snap at any second. So much so, in fact, that you had been a little unsure to reject him at first. But after a talk with Yuzu, you had managed the courage to stand before him, bow politely, and reject his offer.

He had taken it well at first. Smiled, bowed back, and said he appreciated your honesty.

But then, he'd gone cold.

Not cruel or openly vindictive like you feared. Just... distant. Professional in a way that felt deliberate, and nothing like before. And even if in the moment it had felt a little weird, you hadn't thought much about it until now.

Back then, Karami had still been leashed. Powerful, and scary, yes—but ultimately under Kanemori-sensei's final word. Like a fearsome lieutenant serving a wise captain.

(Or, in Osamu's mind, a rabid chihuahua restrained by a sweet old neighbor.)

Still, he had been fearsome. And it had kept both of you up at night.

So much so that even now, years later, with diplomas on the wall and restaurants bearing your names, his presence still did something to you both. Something visceral.

Some kind of fear that lived in muscle memory.

You could feel it in the days that followed that text about him. In the restless cooking, in the way your eyes drifted to the door whenever the bell would chime, in the way you saw Osamu taking a few extra smoke breaks whenever his shop was empty.

In the way you both were ready for the day he'd show up, unannounced. You felt it in your knives, in your sweat, in your bones, in the war drum beating steadily beneath your skin—growing louder, closer, and inevitable.

It was a Monday, right before closing. Right before you might have sighed and rested and postponed the fear until morning.

Instead, you had to fear now.

Miya: My info broker just texted me. : Shin? Miya: Yep. He's coming today. Probably soon. Be ready, sweetheart. : Do you have a cigarette? Miya: Thought you only smoked when you drank? : Cut me some slack, Miya. This is Karami-senpai we're talking about. Miya: Meet me at front then.

You gave Anko and Yuzu a quick briefing and left them to tend to the remaining tables, needing both that smoke break and a moment to strategize.

When you stepped outside, Osamu was already lighting a cigarette with his back against the brick wall. Relaxed posture. Easy sprawl.

A lie.

You'd grown better at reading him. You could see his nerves in the tight set of his jaw, in the way his eyes stayed fixed on the pavement instead of the street, in the way his knee bounced even while standing—as if his legs were fighting the urge to pace the block raw.

It matched the rhythm thudding behind your own forehead.

That wardrum.

"Why at front?" you asked, stopping beside him.

He handed you a cigarette and flicked his lighter open, holding it out. You leaned in with the stick between your teeth. The flame danced as he spoke over it, watching you light the cigarette with half-lidded eyes.

"He's comin'. Better we meet him out here." He said after clearing his throat.

"How do you know hes coming now?"

"He just is." A shrug. "Almost closin' time. He'll want us alone when he gets here. He wants us to cook for him."

You exhaled slowly, smoke curling between you. Bitter, yet grounding.

"Yeah, that tracks," you muttered. "It's definitely personal, then."

"'Course it is." His eyes lingered on you for half a second too long before he looked away, taking a drag. "For some of us more than others, I guess."

Your brows furrowed on their own.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

A dumb question.

"Hm." He shrugged again. "Dunno."

A dumb answer.

Your eyes narrowed, and for a moment, you almost explained. Almost told him how little it meant—for you, and probably for Karami, too. You felt a strange urge to over-clarify, to plate the truth neatly so he wouldn't misunderstand what your relationship with Karami really was.

You didn't like that impulse.

"Still," Osamu said, breaking the silence. "Ain't it kinda scary?"

You glanced up at him.

"I feel like a kid again," he went on, taking a drag with a smirk. "Alone in my chef whites under those fuckin' fluorescents. Pray'n my knife won't slip while Karami's watchin'."

The honesty caught you off guard. The way his fear mirrored your own—same pressure, different cut—made you smile a little.

"Yeah..." you answered softly. "Me too."

"I know whatever I make, he'll hate it anyway," he huffed, humorless.

You stared at the ground, lips pursed, and took another drag. Smoke filled your lungs and settled there like something heavy you couldn't spit out.

Worry.

"Maybe you should just make him something classic."

Silence.

You looked up at the lack of response—only to find him already staring daggers down at you.

"Don't tell me how t'cook my food."

You scoffed, an incredulous smile curling at your lips.

"Are you serious right now? How are you so stubborn?"

"I won't bend myself just to make that asshole happy." His jaw set, like bracing for impact. "Fuck his opinion. If I change my cookin' for him, then he wins."

It might've sounded inspiring if reality weren't pressing down on you so hard. Because the truth was, Karami wasn't just a bitter ex-senpai. You'd looked him up the day Osamu sent you his profile. He had reach now. Followers. Even if old-school critics didn't seem to take him that seriously, social media did—and that carried its own kind of power.

Or maybe it was just your anxiety talking.

"A bad critique could wreck your career, Miya."

You meant it out of concern, but it came across as a little paternalistic.

"Funny of ya t'think he won't wreck it anyway," he shot back. "He's always hated my cookin'."

"Which is exactly why you should get off your high horse and cook something traditional for him."

"Thank you, sweetheart," he said coolly, "but I don't recall askin' for your opinion."

"Oh, fuck you," you snapped. "You're acting like a child."

He rolled his eyes at that.

"And there ya go. Usin' personal attacks when ya ran outta arguments."

"I'm just wondering, how hard is it for you to compromise for once? Is your pride that fragile?"

"It ain't about pride. I won't let him decide who I am in my own kitchen."

"Oh, so it's not about pride."

"That's what I said."

"It's about the principle of it."

"Yeah. Obviously."

"Yeah, you make no sense."

"I didn't expect ya to get it," he muttered, "considerin' ya were such a goodie two-shoes, followin' his every word back in school..."

"Who's doing personal attacks now?"

"Well ya pissed me off."

"You see?" you shot back. "You are a baby! How's your ego so big?"

"Wanna speak about egos?" he scoffed. "That's rich comin' from Miss Teacher's Pet."

"Oh, please." You scoffed harder. "Do I have to remind you who the real favorite was? Mister Inarizaki's opposite hitter, Miya-kun, Prince of knife skills?"

"Witch."

"Dumbass."

"Fussy."

Your left eye twitched.

"Dumbass and unoriginal," you winced theatrically. "Pick a struggle, Miya."

A strident laugh cut through the air.

Both you and Osamu straightened instinctively.

It wasn't even conscious. It was muscle memory.

Because Karami's aura was that heavy, and because hierarchy and respect in a kitchen were that carved into your brains. No matter how much time had passed, no matter how much you'd built since then, this man was still your senpai.

And now, he was a critic.

Karami Itsuki stood a few steps away, clapping slowly and laughing like he was watching his favorite comedy show. He looked polished as always. Dressed in a tailored coat that sat a little too perfectly on his shoulders, and his hair neatly styled, every strand intentional.

His eyes were still sharp. Still calculating. Always watching.

Like in school... only worse.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said cheerfully. "Some things really never change, huh?"

He smiled. Fake. Head tilting as if in fond amusement.

"Tell me, now. Do I gotta separate ya two like back in school?" A laugh. "Haaah. Kind of nostalgic, don't ya think?"

He wiped at the corner of his eyes as if brushing away fake tears, then gestured broadly toward both restaurants with unnecessary flair.

"Fate's funny like that, huh?" he mused. "Side by side like this. I'm honestly surprised ya haven't burned each other's places down yet. With how hard-headed ya both are—jeez."

"It's good to see you too, Karami-senpai," Osamu replied.

The politeness was textbook. Insincerity undisguised. But Karami hummed, pleased with it either way.

"Have you seen Kanemori-sensei lately?" You asked, softly. "How's he doing?"

For a moment, Karami looked confused

"Oh," he said lightly. "Ya don't know."

Osamu frowned. "Know what?"

"Kanemori-sensei passed away not long ago."

The words landed wrong. Entirely too casual.

"I'm pretty sure the school sent out an email? Though—yeah. Guess no one reads those, huh? Of course, I didn't need one." A small, smug smile tugged at his lips. "Sensei's wife invited me personally. Unsurprising, considerin' I was—"

His voice blurred into static as he went on and on, and the buzzing in your brain got louder and louder.

Kanemori-sensei had passed away.

And you hadn't known.

He wasn't someone you actively thought about anymore—not in the way that shaped your days or rearranged your priorities. He existed more as a fixed point in your memories, unchanging and dependable, quietly there as you cooked, but never consciously present.

His lessons lived in your hands now. In your posture. In the way you held a knife. In the instinctive corrections you made without thinking. The man who'd taught you had faded into the background—absorbed into muscle memory.

So the first thing you felt wasn't exactly grief.

It was disbelief.

Like finding a familiar building missing from a street you hadn't walked on in years.

But your chest still tightened, awkwardly, like you'd mistaken your role in the story.

"This isn't mine to feel," you thought.

It was a loss for his family. For the culinary world. For the people who'd stayed close.

And yet—

The ache stayed.

Because he had been a mentor, because he had been an inspiration, because you respected him deeply—and respect doesn't always ask permission to turn into grief, does it? Sometimes it just hurts and leaves you to make sense of it later.

Osamu nudged your arm gently with his elbow and leaned in.

"Is it just me," he murmured low by your ear as Karami continued with his self-indulgent monologue, "or did this guy's head get even bigger?"

The motion, paired with his joking tone, pulled you out of it for a second. You snorted softly, shaking your head.

"Yeah. At least back then, he didn't brag this much."

"Ya think his dick got any bigger, too or...?"

"Any smaller, you mean?"

Osamu stifled a laugh behind his hand, stealing a triumphant smile from your lips—but when he nudged you again, coaxing your gaze up, his expression had softened. His eyes were warm. Grounded.

Knowing.

"I'm sad about Kanemori-sensei, too," he whispered. And just like that, your chest loosened back a little.

You felt so incredibly grateful for him in that moment. For him to be there, to grant you the rare yet needed relief of being seen without having to explain.

You nodded, lips pulling into a small, sad smile.

"Yeah... thank you, Miya."

He smiled down at you for a second longer before Karami's silence snapped you both out of it.

He'd noticed he no longer had your attention. His mouth closed. His head tilted as he watched the two of you instead, eyes narrowing just slightly.

"Interestin'…" he murmured.

Then his gaze slid to Osamu. Locked in.

"Let's start with you."

Osamu exhaled slowly in response, shoulders tensing as he pulled his familiar black cap from his back pocket and tugged it on. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

"See ya later, Y/N."

You nodded once, and a knot formed in your stomach as you silently wished him luck.

"Oh—Y/N," Karami added casually, already turning away. "You should join us."

"Eh?"

"Yeah, tell yer staff to close up and join me for Miya's evaluation."

Was that even allowed?

You looked at Osamu, who looked just as confused as you did.

Something about this felt wrong. Karami's voice carried sweetness like a glaze—thin, brittle, and barely masking the authority underneath.

"I—I'm not sure that's—" you started.

Karami stopped. Then slowly turned his head over his shoulder.

His smile had vanished. His eyes had gone cold.

"Join us, Y/N."

The shift was instant.

And there it was. The voice of hierarchy. Of command. Of fluorescent-lit kitchens. Of held breaths and unspoken fear.

It made your skin prickle.

You felt yourself grow smaller under his gaze. Like you'd lost years in a second and a stare, and were nothing but a student again, in front of Kanemori-sensei's sous-chef.

"This man is dangerous," something in you whispered. "Comply. Survive."

"I… sure," you said quietly.

And Karami smiled again. Far too fast. Far too pleased. Walking ahead of both of you towards Onigiri Miya, not without murmuring a small 'Good' first—the kind you gave to a well-behaved pet.

You felt the shiver of a bad omen run down your spine.

A dog barked in the background.

The air was too thin.

Or maybe your chest was too tight.

You could feel something primal stirring deep in your gut, something wild and scared that was trying to chew its way out of your abdomen and make a run for the hills.

"Don't breathe wrong," that voice in your head whispered again.

The whole scene looked less like an evaluation and more like the opening shot of a horror movie.

Osamu's staff stood at the edge of the kitchen, lined up like tributes. Or acolytes. With their backs straight, their hands clasped and eyes lowered or fixed somewhere neutral just above Karami's head—as if looking directly at him might invite punishment. No one moved. No one spoke.

"Everyone," he had said firmly as he entered the restaurant, "stay where you are."

And they had. After sharing a nervous glance between them, Osamu had nodded at them—somber, apologetic, practically begging them to just… comply. To obey this psychopath he had led into their kitchen.

So they had.

The clink of cutlery from the last occupied table faded. Chairs scraped softly as customers were ushered out. The click sound of the door locking had echoed too loudly for everyone in the room.

And now, Karami sat at the countertop, with his coat folded neatly over the back of the chair, his movements careful and precise. As if this weren't a restaurant, but a stage. As if the act had already begun.

He didn't even ask to see the menu, hadn't even glanced at the board by the pass.

"Miya," he said simply, without even looking at him, "bring me your best."

Osamu stilled. And you saw the way his shoulders locked, and his fingers flexed once at his side, like he was grounding himself before stepping into something dangerous. Something he knew would cut.

"Yes, Karami-senpai," he replied.

The words tasted old. Bitterly so.

When he disappeared into the kitchen, the silence he left behind rushed in to take his place. And that same small, primal instinct in your gut begged him not to go.

Everything felt wrong.

You became acutely aware of your own body sitting right next to Karami—of your lungs expanding, then contracting. You swallowed and it felt too loud, the small click in your throat echoing like a mistake. Your heart was beating fast and erratically, like it was trying to warn you of something your brain already knew.

Karami's chair creaked a little when he leaned in, fingers steepled under his chin, watching the kitchen like a man watching prey wander into a trap it didn't know existed yet. His gaze drifted—not quite to you, but around you. Over you. As if you were part of the room now. Another fixture. Another placement he'd already decided on.

And suddenly, it was obvious.

This wasn't Osamu's evaluation. This was a demonstration.

He wanted an audience. Wanted witnesses. He wanted Osamu exposed, dissected, and judged. And he wanted you close enough to feel it. To see it. To remind you exactly where you stood in relation to him.

Above.

Below.

Always clear.

You knew the silence was intentional—curated. He wanted to create a room where silence wasn't peace, but a warning. And it made your skin prickle with the kind of awareness you hadn't felt in years. The kind born from a man standing just close enough behind you while you cooked that you could feel him in the tremor of your knife.

Karami smiled to himself, small and satisfied, as his eyes flicked briefly—briefly—to you.

Like he knew.

You could breathe a little better when Osamu came back out of the kitchen, setting a plate down in front of Karami.

Three onigiri. Steam curled faintly from the rice, carrying warmth and the scent of fat and citrus into the air.

Osamu cleared his throat.

"These are one of our bestsellers," he started. "The rice was mixed with toasted sesame and citrus zest, the nori brushed with oil and crisped. The filling is pork belly, slow-braised, then chopped and folded with scallions, fermented plum, and a whisper of chili oil."

Karami watched the food in front of him with unreadable eyes.

"This one—" Osamu continued, voice steady now. Confident, "—is about contrast. Rich and acidic. Fat and heat. The rice is packed looser so—"

Karami raised a single finger.

Osamu went silent.

Karami gestured loosely to you and leveled him with a raised brow.

"Nothin' for my guest?"

The words landed like a blade laid flat against skin.

Osamu's jaw locked. And you saw the flash of calculation flicker behind his eyes, the humiliation snapping shut around him like a trap he'd seen too late.

Karami wasn't asking, really. He was just reminding him of his place.

"Joking, joking~" he chuckled, waving a hand dismissively and already reaching for the onigiri. "Relax."

He took a bite, but he didn't close his eyes, or even savor. Just chewed, slow and deliberate, like a man tasting something he'd already decided to condemn before it even touched his tongue.

And Osamu didn't resume his explanation. The silence had returned, only thicker now.

Karami swallowed, then sighed dramatically.

"Oh, Miya-kun," he said softly like a scolding father. "You really never learned, did you?"

Osamu said nothing, but his right eye twitched.

"You're still stacking flavors on top of flavors like you're afraid simplicity won't hold your customer's attention." He continued, then gestured vaguely at the plate. "There's no respect here. For the rice. For the tradition."

Your stomach twisted.

"You still cook like someone trying to prove a point, like someone desperate to be seen as clever instead of competent." His eyes flicked up. "Food isn't a playground, Miya. And it's not a place to work out your unresolved issues."

Osamu's fingers curled behind his back—but he didn't move. Didn't flinch. He stood there the way high-end cooks learned to: spine straight, expression empty, absorbing damage without bleeding where anyone could see.

The curse of being trained well.

"You still mistake excess for personality," Karami said. "And rebellion for originality. This isn't revolution—it's just noise~"

Something in your chest burned. And a familiar, unswallowable knot got stuck in your throat.

The words were wrong—but worse, they were familiar.

Too close to things you had once thought. Things you'd almost believed. Something in your chest burned. Painfully.

Karami leaned back, pleased by Osamu's silence.

"And that tracks, doesn't it?" His voice softened, almost pitying. "You've always been like that. You never cared about discipline. About lineage. About learning when to shut up and listen."

His smile sharpened.

"And that's why you'll never be great."

That was it.

Your eyes widened, fists clenching before you could stop them, that burning in your chest about to explode.

This asshole wasn't even critiquing the fucking food.

He was dismantling Osamu.

And suddenly, the fear, the hierarchy, the memory of fluorescents and of shaking knives—didn't fucking matter anymore. It all collapsed under the weight of something stronger.

Your mind snapped together a handful of facts in a handful of seconds, maybe two heartbeats. Facts that crystallized into one singular thought:

Who the fuck does he think he is?

You wanted to punch him. Oh, you wanted to punch him so bad it made your knuckles itchy. The urge was visceral—but you knew you couldn't. Not your style. And a restraining order was the last thing you needed right now.

But you couldn't take it any longer. Watching Karami disrespect Osamu like that. Using his imaginary authority to humiliate him in front of his staff. In front of you.

The knot in your throat burned, turned into a blade that crawled up your windpipe and settled on your tongue, tasting just like the blood you'd drawn from biting into your cheek the entire time Karami was speaking.

Before doubt could intervene, your hand moved, reaching forward and dragging Karami's plate towards you.

Slowly.

Porcelain scraped against wood like nails scratching a blackboard, loud, almost obscene. A contrast to that stupid, hellish silence Karami had cultivated so carefuly.

You heard gasps from the staff as you picked up the remaining onigiri and took a large bite.

Warm rice and balanced fat flooded your senses. Acid cutting through the richness just enough to reset the palate. Bold, yes—but intentional. Thoughtful. Alive.

Osamu.

You chewed slowly, eyes locked ahead, but threatening to close because it was just that good. When you swallowed, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand just to add insult to injury.

Then you looked at him.

Met his stare head-on. No flinch. No apology.

"You're wrong."

Karami stared at you with wide eyes.

Furious.

The disrespect was unmistakable—you knew that. Publicly contradicting him was bad enough. Touching his plate. Eating his food. Speaking to him like an equal.

In another context, you might have been shaking.

But if you couldn't punch him, and if you couldn't drive a knife clean through his ego (and his chest), then you'd do it the way you knew best.

With words.

You drew in a deep breath and sighed, solidifying your strength.

You let your finger drag through a scatter of rice grains left on the plate, drawing an imaginary character on the porcelain.

"Karami," you said calmly. "That's written with the kanji for spicy, right?"

His eyes flicked—just once—to the plate.

"I guess you used to be like that. Your words were always a little... tangy. But if you tweak some of the radicals, you get something else."

You licked the rice from the tip of your finger.

"Empty."

The word landed without emphasis or flourish. Just factual.

"I think that's the more accurate reading now," you nodded, finally meeting his gaze. "You speak like a professional critic. But what are you, beyond that? A food influencer with good reach. But what about the experience to back your words up?"

His eyes narrowed—slowly, and you relished in his reaction, knowing you'd hit the nail on the head.

"Did you even work in a kitchen after you graduated?" you asked, mildly. "I mean work. Or did your cooking peak in school, and now you make a living dissecting other people's labor instead?"

"Do you only visit restaurants run by old kōhai?" you went on. "People who still freeze when you raise your voice? People you can bend with borrowed authority—Kanemori-sensei's shadow still doing the heavy lifting for you?"

You gestured toward the onigiri with a thinned smile.

"You call this disrespect. But experimentation is risk. Risk is responsibility. And responsibility is something you stopped taking the moment you realized it was easier to judge than to cook."

You leaned in, just slightly. "And maybe," you said quietly, "chefs who can't experiment never become chefs at all. Don't you think, Karami-senpai?"

The honorific was deliberate. Surgical. Fake.

"Because I think. You're not a chef... And your tongue isn't really spicy anymore." Your eyes narrowed on him. "It's bitter."

For a few loaded seconds, there was nothing but silence, and Karami looked like he might explode. His jaw locked so hard Osamu could hear his teeth grind. His hands curled against the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening, shoulders lifting as if something violent were forcing its way up his throat.

Osamu's heart slammed.

This was it. This was when plates flew.

Karami inhaled. Held it.

Then—slowly... he smiled.

Not the polite kind. Not the critic's grin either.

This one was thin and controlled. Too careful. Like a blade sheathed just before it can cut skin. The kind of smile that meant restraint, not forgiveness.

And Osamu's stomach dropped at the sight. Because, somehow, it was scarier than if he'd thrown a tantrum.

"Well... That was… spirited."

He straightened his cuffs. Smoothed his hair. Reassembled himself piece by piece.

"I'll forgive the outburst," he continued, voice pleasant. "Emotions run high in kitchens. Especially when pride gets involved."

His eyes flicked to you. Stayed there.

"I'll even give you time to cool down. You clearly need it, Y/N."

He stood up, grabbed his coat, and walked to the door.

"I'm going to love seeing if you can put those words into your cooking," he said. His voice was calm, but the space around him felt lethal. "Consider this an opportunity to prove you're more than noise."

He paused at the door.

"You have ten minutes."

Then slammed it harder than necessary.

The echo rang through the dining room before slowly fading—and with it, the pressure eased just enough to breathe again. Like lungs finally allowed to expand after being held too long.

Someone from Osamu's staff shifted their weight. Someone else swallowed too loudly. No one spoke.

Osamu turned to you.

You were still sitting there, looking at the door like you weren't entirely convinced Karami had actually left. With your chin lifted, eyes steady and defiant, and squared shoulders—like you were braced for him to come back in swinging.

He swallowed, and his pulse felt louder in his ears.

You hadn't even raised your voice. You'd dismantled Karami the way you broke down fish—no wasted motion, no flourish. Just clean cuts placed exactly where they would hurt the most.

His chest felt… strange. Tight in a way that didn't match the situation. The wrong kind of awareness creeping in at the edges—because you'd done this before.

Not like this, but he remembered the umeboshi. The day you'd snapped at him, frustrated and honest, pissed that he let people walk over him knowingly back in school. The way you'd looked at him like he was worth defending, even when he wouldn't do it himself. The way you'd called him out without malice, without mercy either.

And once again, you had defended him. Fiercely this time. With teeth and claws. You'd stepped forward knowing exactly what it would cost you, and decided that it was worth paying.

And people didn't throw themselves under knives like that for nothing.

Osamu dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek. A spark flickered in his heart before he could stop it, and it lit something reckless and hopeful that roared like a forest fire, consuming all the doubt your avoidance had planted.

But that hope was immediately followed by dread.

Because Osamu knew kitchens.

He knew hierarchy. Knew how long memories lasted, and what happened to people who embarrassed the wrong name in the wrong room.

And you hadn't just talked back to Karami. You'd challenged him. Publicly. Professionally. Personally.

Osamu's fingers felt cold when he finally realized they were trembling.

"Are ya—like—" His voice came out low and disbelieving. "Clinically insane?"

You felt like the sound of his voice drained the last bit of adrenaline out of you all at once, leaving your limbs heavy and your fingers faintly numb. Your face prickled for some reason, like the skin around your eyes and lips had fallen asleep. Your heart was still racing, but now it had nowhere to go.

You exhaled. The kitchen exhaled with you.

Then you huffed out something that might've been a laugh if your chest didn't feel so tight

"I prefer 'selectively self-destructive,'" you muttered.

"That wasn't selective," Osamu shot back. "That was career suicide."

He scrubbed a hand down his face, pacing once before stopping in front of you. His voice dropped further, rougher now.

"Ya didn't have to do that. I don't care what that guy thinks—I told ya that." He gestured vaguely toward the door Karami had disappeared out. Pacing again. "He doesn't get to decide who I am. Or what I cook. You didn't have to do that, Y/n."

In the past, you would've bristled.

Where's my thank you, Miya? would've come easy and defensive, still riding the heat of the moment.

But you could hear in his voice that he was just worried, you could see in the urgency of his wide grey eyes that he was scared.

For you.

"I know," you said softly. Osamu faltered a little at your tone.

"I know you don't care," you continued, eyes dropping to the floor. You didn't trust yourself to look at him—not when you felt like this. "But… I guess I do."

Osamu froze like he hadn't heard you right.

You met his eyes for a moment. He looked back at you wide-eyed and surprised, ears a little pink. Like his brain had hit a wall and needed a second to reboot.

His stare was a little intense, so you looked back at the floor, missing the way he opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again, chickening out.

He ran a hand through his hair, holding his cap with the other and exhaling hard.

"…You're unbelievable," he muttered.

"And—let me guess—fussy?" you offered faintly.

"I didn't mean it like—"

"Well," you cut in, standing up, "I should probably go ruin my life properly."

Osamu's head snapped up. "Hey—"

But you were already moving.

Past him. Toward the door. Toward whatever Karami was waiting to throw at you next.

Osamu stayed where he was, even though his hand had raised to grab yours, heart hammering, and just watching you walk away as if he reached for you, it would burn him.

You took one last breath in front of the door. Straightened and rolled your shoulders back like you were putting on armor—and stepped outside, wincing a little when the night air hit you like cold water.

Karami stood a few steps away from the entrance, back half-turned, cigarette lit but unsmoked between his fingers.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

"Yer done?"

You met his stare, defiant.

"Yes."

It tasted like a lie in your tongue.

Spicy.

Next chapter↪

He drew in a breath as he finished listing his will in his head. Then forced his feet to move.

Every step forward felt like another inch closer to hell's gates. Even the usually busy streets of Kobe seemed subdued for him today—quieter, heavier. As if the city itself had decided to observe a moment of silence in advance.

When he pushed the door open and stepped into the restaurant, Suna swore he could hear a taiko drum pounding somewhere deep in the back of his skull, and his vision washed itself of color like an old yakuza movie he'd once watched half-drunk at three in the morning.

It definitely looked like one, at least.

All the tables had been moved aside, clearing the room until there was only one left—a long table set squarely in the center, like an altar.

In front of it was a chair. Behind it sat the three of you.

Yuzu occupied the far left, slouched so far back in her chair it was a miracle she hadn't tipped over yet. Her legs were propped casually on the table, boots crossed at the ankles, and—were those sunglasses? An unlit cigarette dangled from her lips, and her mouth was tilted slightly to one side in the kind of crooked expression that looked like she'd been punched one too many times and decided to keep it as a warning.

On the far right, Anko sat perfectly upright, eyes closed, hands folded neatly on the table. She looked eerily serene—like a grieving widow at a funeral she hadn't chosen to attend. Something about her calm sent a shiver down his spine. Suna had the distinct, terrible feeling that if she had been given a choice on his fate, it would not have gone in his favor.

And then in the centre there was you.

She who held the knife.

Not actually holding a knife—thank god—but he could see it anyway in the Kubrick stare you were giving him.

The hurt. The pride. That sharp, simmering fire that came from betrayal rather than rage.

You looked like a bull staring down red fabric, gaze locked, body still, waiting for the exact right moment to charge.

Suna swallowed.

He straightened his back, puffed his chest just slightly, and forced his expression into something neutral. Respectful. Not-defensive-but-not-cowering. Better stone-faced than prey-faced was his motto.

Yuzu kicked the chair waiting for him with her heel, which scraped loudly in the silence, then jerked her chin at him.

"Take responsibility for yerself, ya low-level thug."

You sighed beside her, pinching the bridge of your nose. Suna fought the urge to laugh—bad instinct, terrible timing—and took the seat.

The wood felt colder than it should have. He folded his hands together on the table, fingers lacing and unlacing like they couldn't agree on whether to pray or run. And for a second, he just… breathed.

Then he bowed his head.

"I'm sorry," he said. No theatrics. Just the truth, laid bare. "For lying to you. For not saying anything sooner. For letting this go on as long as it did."

The silence pressed in around him, heavy and expectant. It made his shoulders tense, and he mistook it for judgment—for the moment before impact.

So he kept going.

"I didn't plan for it to go this far," he continued, eyes fixed on the table. "At first, Osamu just asked me to just… check things out. See what kind of place this was. See what kind of people you were. What kind of food you served and stuff." His jaw tightened. "I told myself I'd do it once. Just once."

He laughed, humorless. "But that was a lie."

Anko opened her eyes slowly, gaze gentle but unflinching.

"The more time I spent here," Suna said, voice lower now, "the harder it got. You weren't what I expected. None of you were." He glanced up, just briefly, meeting your eyes—then looked away again like your gaze hurt too much to hold. "I started liking you. All of you. For real."

Yuzu clicked her tongue, lips curling into a crooked grin. "That's how we get ya, rookie."

Suna swallowed. "Every night I told myself, Tomorrow. I'll say it tomorrow. And every night it felt… worse. Like it was already too late. Like if I opened my mouth I'd just lose this place, and y'all with it." His shoulders rose with a slow breath. "And yeah. I was scared."

You hadn't said a word yet. Just listened. Watched the way Suna sat there, shoulders tense like he was braced for a blow that hadn't come. The way his eyes kept flicking to you, then away.

You hated how familiar his recount sounded to what Osamu told you about the Kita situation. That he'd wanted to tell you, but had been too scared of your reaction, too scared of you.

You didn't like that.

You didn't like the idea that the people around you—people you cared about—would rather swallow guilt and fear than face your anger. That your intensity, your sharp edges when hurt, could make honesty feel dangerous for them.

You'd always thought of yourself as steady. Reliable. Someone who handled things. But maybe, sometimes you handled them too hard. Maybe you were scarier than you meant to be.

Finally, you exhaled.

"Welcome back, Sunarin."

His head snapped up.

Anko's smile bloomed instantly—warm, relieved. Yuzu tipped her sunglasses up with two fingers, a grin tugging at her mouth, though Suna caught the softness in her eyes.

"Where ya scared?" she asked, tone lazy. "Did ya think we were gonna make you cut yer pinkie off?"

Suna let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-relief.

"I mean. You did move all the tables and sit me down like a low-budget crime syndicate... but no. Not really."

Yuzu's brows furrowed, affronted. She turned to you immediately.

"See? Told ya we should've put the knife on the table. For ambiance."

You snorted, shaking your head.

"You've been watching too many Yakuza movies."

"Hey! They're a national treasure!"

Anko let out a small, fond laugh, hands still folded neatly in front of her.

"It must've been hard, Rin," she said softly. "Keeping something like that for so long."

Suna's expression cracked at that—just a little.

"Yeah. It was."

"Ne, Sunarin." Yuzu leaned forward, elbows on the table, sunglasses discarded next to her. "We almost fed ya to our pet tiger~"

Suna was about to ask what that meant when, right on cue, a small, indignant mewl cut through the air.

He blinked as a tiny ball of fur no bigger than a coffee cup trotted toward him and bumped into his leg. He pointed down at it, incredulous, before crouching to pet it.

"...And this?"

"Nigiri," Yuzu said proudly. "Y/N and Miya found her in the alley the other night. She's the official pet tiger now. Didn't he mention her?"

A memory surfaced unbidden: Osamu coming home, grumbling about an "annoying furball," eyes far too soft for the words to land.

"...I guess he did."

"I let you move the tables for this," you said, gesturing lightly, "Now put them back, please."

Yuzu groaned theatrically but stood anyway.

"You got it, Boss."

Anko rose too, pausing to rest a hand on Suna's shoulder as she passed.

"Welcome back," she murmured.

Soon, it was just the two of you, the soft scrape of furniture filling the space as the girls worked. Nigiri darted between their legs like a tiny menace, earning a chorus of careful warnings.

The restaurant felt smaller now.

Quieter. Real.

You stepped closer, and Suna straightened instinctively, eyes searching your face.

"I'm sorry too," you said quietly.

He frowned at that. "For what?"

"For making you scared," you admitted. "For letting you think you had to carry that alone. That you had to walk on eggshells around me."

Your gaze dipped for just a second before you looked back up, steadier.

"Next time," you continued, "even if it's something I don't wanna hear—say it anyway. I don't want the people I care about to be afraid of me... Friends should trust each other."

His throat bobbed.

"I didn't wanna hurt you."

You smiled—small and a little sad. But sincere.

"I know. But I don't want you handling me with kid gloves either."

"…Noted."

The truth lingered between you, unspoken but understood.

It still hurt.

The betrayal hadn't vanished just because he apologized.

Trust wasn't a switch—it was something rebuilt slowly, carefully, piece by piece. And you knew you had a complicated relationship with trust. With betrayal. With letting people get close without bracing for impact.

But as you looked at him now—earnest, remorseful, still here—you knew something else, too.

Suna was worth it.

And for now—

That was enough.

You were glad he was back.

Osamu wasn't very happy—but he couldn't say he was miserable, either.

You were avoiding the elephant in the room. The almost-kiss outside his restaurant, rain-soaked and unfinished, left sitting between you like something fragile no one dared to touch. He could see your avoidance, your fear in the way you danced around him now, how carefully you steered conversations away from anything that lingered too long. How you ran, again, in that quiet way that never looked like running at all.

It was starting to feel familiar. Dangerously so. Like something he could get used to.

And yet—Nigiri existed.

That tiny, ferocious little thing you'd both scooped up without thinking, that had become a shared responsibility now, one that dragged you back into his space again and again. Whether it was intentional or truly just for the cat, Osamu didn't know. And at first, he told himself he didn't need to know.

That he didn't need clarity.

Didn't need answers.

Didn't need to name whatever this was.

And damn it—he loved the little furball.

Nigiri reminded him so much of you. All sharp edges at first, claws out and hissing, offended by his very existence. Suspicious. Defensive. Like the world had already taught her to brace for disappointment.

And then, slowly, she'd begun to warm-up to him. Pulling away, then circling back. Like she enjoyed keeping him off-balance just as much as you did. Swatting at his hand and biting his fingers first, only so she could later ignore Suna entirely and choose to melt into his lap, purring loudly while he watched TV, small and warm and impossibly trusting.

He couldn't help but to hope.

That's it, Nigiri, he tought. Teach your mom that.

With the quiet, dangerous hope that one day, you might melt into his lap just as easily.

It was poison, this dance you were leading.

Joint vet appointments to get her vaccinated, where you'd written both your names side by side as her owners. Texts about feeding schedules, dewormers, the exact hours she needed her kitten milk—because it turned out she'd been orphaned too early, and she was just a little too small and a little too fragile, now surviving on borrowed care.

Every three to four hours.

Which meant that whichever week one of you had her, sleep became a luxury neither of you could afford.

And it meant he got more of you.

More texts. More casual intimacy disguised as logistics:

Y/N: Did you feed our daughter, Miya? It's 11 pm already.

Our daughter.

Osamu had tried to ignore it at first. Pretend it didn't make his chest tighten, didn't curl warm and dangerous somewhere behind his ribs. Like the thought of you and this cat didn't feel like a life he wanted.

You had to know what you were doing to him.

: Of course I did, she wouldn't stop screaming. Y/N: Oh? Is daddy having trouble? I knew I should've kept her this week. You can't deal with fatherhood. : Not this week. You need to sleep too. Also, don't call me daddy. That's gross.

You'd laughed out loud when you read it, warmth bubbling up your chest.

Osamu, on the other hand, had typed it out with a shortness of breath he didn't want to examine too closely.

He didn't even have a daddy kink for fuck's sake.

No.

Osamu had a you kink. That much, at least, was obvious.

Because there was no rational explanation for this. No sane reason for the way his eyes were moving on their own, drifting to your mouth when you talked about mundane things—like the exact brand of kitten milk Nigiri liked the most, or how you noticed she loved rubbing her face against strangers like she owned them.

Or worse—the vet.

A professional. A doctor. Someone whose literal job was to be kind, reassuring, and attentive.

And still—Osamu felt something tight and ugly coil in his stomach every time the guy smiled at you a little too easily, every time you nodded along, listening so intently, smiling that soft smile Osamu knew far too well. It wasn't attraction—he knew that.

And his wasn't healthy either.

It was possession without permission.

Jealousy without a right.

Childish. Petty. Borderline creepy.

You weren't his girlfriend. You weren't anything he could lay claim to. And this was a vet appointment, not some fucked-up love triangle.

Once, during an appointment, the vet's voice had started to blur into background noise as Osamu watched you agree with him, the two of you exchanging easy smiles over Nigiri's chart. Osamu's jaw had tightened before he could stop it, jealousy flaring sharp and unreasonable in his chest.

Jesus, he tought. I'm definitely losin' it.

He dragged a hand over his face, staring resolutely at the floor.

Turnin' into a fuckin' walkin' red flag.

"Nigiri seems very healthy. Happy, too," the vet mentioned, snapping him out of thought. The man smiled down even as the kitten swatted at his hands and hissed. Far too small to be this ready for battle. "Oh, still so feisty. I'll grab the vaccine—wait here a moment."

Feisty like someone I know, Osamu almost said.

Instead, his gaze found you.

With the vet gone, Nigiri had relaxed instantly, crawling closer, her tiny body melting into your hands. You'd softened with her, voice dropping as you murmured nonsense.

"Has your dad been treating you nicely?"

"Please don't hate us, Nigiri. Okay? I know you don't like the vet, but this is for your own good. We'll be home in two seconds, I promise."

Something in his chest had pulled tight at the sight.

And before he could stop himself, his fingers brushed through your hair. Catching a strand, lifting it slowly, and pressing it to his lips.

Too intimate. Too familiar.

You stiffened immediately. And when you turned to him, your eyes were wide, and your cheeks were flushed the prettiest shade of pink.

"W-what are you doing, Miya?"

"Nothing," he said—realizing only then what he'd done. But he still didn't look away. Still held your gaze, intensity palpable in his grey eyes. Almost challenging you. Daring you to call it what it was.

But you didn't.

Because you never did.

You brushed it off. Looked away. Stepped around it like it hadn't happened at all.

And somehow—that hurt more than if you'd pushed him back.

Because avoidance tasted a lot like rejection.

"Okay, what the actual—and forgive my French, Anko-chan—double-fried fuck?! This is a part of Nigiri's gestation ya absolutely did not disclose back then!"

Your lips pressed together as you sliced cleanly through the salmon, the blade gliding like it always did. You laid the fish over the rice with care, thumbs gentle and precise. Another nigiri added to the line. Another small thing made right.

The kitchen hummed softly around you—rice cooker clicking, the low sizzle of fish skin meeting heat, the familiar rhythm of your knife against the board. Comforting and controlled. A place where everything made sense if you worked hard enough.

Beside you, Yuzu continued, reaching across to add garnish to the plate you were finishing.

"And it's the most important part!" She made a dramatic pause, her chopsticks hovering inches above the porcelain, just to slowly point them at you.

"The consummation," she whispered like the title of an old horror movie.

You sighed, long and quiet as you set the final nigiri in place.

"Yuzu... We didn't even kiss in the end," you said. "Not really."

"Yeah," Yuzu shot back, already moving. She smeared wasabi on the plate with the concentration of an artist restoring a fresco. "But I bet you wanted to, huh."

Anko slipped in beside you, lifting the plate the moment you were done.

"Ah…" she murmured, thoughtful. "That would explain it."

You glanced up.

"Miya-san's… level of involvement," Anko continued gently, setting the plate on her tray. "With Nigiri. It makes a lot more sense now."

"Exactly," Yuzu said, filling a bowl with miso and sliding it onto the tray before Anko even asked. "And it explains you. You've been weird."

"I've not—"

"You have," Yuzu cut in, sharp but not unkind. "You like him. Not just wanna-jump-his-bones. Not just carnally."

The words hit a little harder than you expected.

Your hand stilled on the knife, and for a second, the kitchen felt louder. The rice cooker hissed. The exhaust fan whirred. Your pulse ticked in your ears. Anko stopped by the kitchen door.

"I... I think I do."

Yuzu slapped the counter, triumphant. "I knew it."

You whipped toward her. "You—wait—you knew it? What do you mean, you knew it? Since when?!"

Anko giggled to herself, finally leaving to serve her table.

"Since uni," Yuzu said easily, already moving again. "You only talked 'bout Miya when whenever ya were drunk. And I'm a psychologist. And a woman. Which basically means I ain't dumb."

Your face went hot. "What?! You were the one who told me to sleep with his twin! If you knew, then why would you—"

"For... the plot?"

"For the plot?!"

"OMG, I was drunk!" she shot back. "Don't hate me, bitch. I'm not the one writing this shit. And I knew you wouldn't do it in the end. Yer too sweet for that."

You just stared at her for a second. Incredulous, then huffed a breath. "Sometimes you make no sense, Yuzu."

Anko peeked back in from the kitchen pass. "We just got a call—five bento boxes. Pick-up!"

"Copy," Yuzu said immediately, hands already moving faster. "Now. Back to the real problem. You like Miya. And you're running from it."

"It's not that simple," you muttered. A long pause followed as you were questioning just how vulnerable and honest you wanted to be.

"What if what he feels for me is just… horniness?" You laughed weakly. "Like—pure hate-fucking energy. He fucks me, gets it out of his system, then goes right back to scheming and hating me just like before."

"Girl," Yuzu said flatly, "those trust issues are gonna kill you one day."

Anko leaned on the pass, chin on her folded arms.

"You have a point, though," she said softly. "Some men only think with their dicks."

You and Yuzu both turned to her.

"Anko-chan," Yuzu said slowly. "Who was it?"

Anko blinked. "W-what?"

"Who hurt you? We'll burn his house down."

"I'm fine!"

"I am not," you groaned. "This is driving me insane."

Yuzu shrugged. "Well, what's wrong with a casual fuck?"

You shot her a look.

"Hate-fucking can be therapeutic," she continued, unbothered. "Cathartic. You release pent-up rage, which you need, get laid, and then you can go back to your cooking-nun persona."

"I know myself," you said quietly. "If we do that… I'll get attached."

Yuzu's eyes widened. "Oh. You like, like him."

She sighed dramatically, leaning against the counter and bringing a hand to her chest.

"Wow. I feel a little envy right now. First Anko-chan, now you. When is it my turn for a love story?"

Anko squeaked. "M-me?!"

You smiled, small and knowing. "You're not slick, Anko-chan."

Anko covered her face with both hands, red-eared.

Yuzu was mid-tease when she suddenly went still, glancing out the front window and letting a slow, wicked smile curl on her lips.

"Oop." she said. "Wax a table and check the fire extinguishers. We got double trouble at six o' clock."

Your stomach dropped a little as you glanced out the window.

Outside, Atsumu was already gesturing wildly as he walked, clearly mid-complaint. Osamu followed beside him, jaw tight, expression already stormy in a way that made your pulse kick up despite yourself.

"Oh shit."

"Well!" Yuzu announced brightly. "Time for a smoke break for moi."

"I—I need to check produce," Anko blurted. Then paused, looking for a different excuse. "…B-but I'll take a smoke break first too!"

"You don't smoke," you said flatly.

"Well!" she said, already fleeing behind Yuzu. "Never a bad time to start! Lung cancer is cool!"

You sighed, watching them abandon you.

"Yuzu," you called. "Don't let Anko smoke."

Yuzu's laugh echoed as she opened the door to the back alley.

"Funny of you to think she'll actually take a puff! She's just a terrible liar. Have fun!"

You sighed and turned to the sink, washed your hands, and stepped back into the dining area to wait for the twins, grabbing a pitcher of iced tea on the way to refill some glasses if needed be.

A couple of regulars waved you over as you made your way outside.

The motion was muscle memory by now—refill, smile, ask how their day was, remember who liked less ice and who always brought a different girl with them but always paid the full bill, and tipped extra when you made their dates laugh.

"Y/N-chan, how's the cat?"

"Still tiny," you laughed, topping off their glasses. "Still ruling our lives."

You promised a couple of new faces an extra sashimi serving if they ever came back. Told an elderly man his usual would be right up. Let yourself linger just a second longer with each table, like you were gently coaxing the room to stay with you.

The restaurant wasn't empty. It never was.

But lately, it was a little quieter.

Lunch rushes didn't swell the way they used to. New faces came and didn't always return. The space felt bigger lately, like sound traveled farther before it settled. Like the walls were listening.

Before your thoughts could spiral, before the bees could start buzzing—

The door chimed.

And in walked your double trouble.

"Y/N!!!"

Atsumu launched himself at you with open arms and dramatic tears flowing, fully prepared to perish in your embrace. You opened your arms on instinct, startled but not unwelcoming—

Only for Osamu to grab the back of his twin's collar and yank, hauling him upright like a misbehaving cat. Atsumu immediately went limp, spine fully abandoned, dangling bonelessly from Osamu's grip.

"Aaaah~ Yer the worst, Samu~" he whined.

You blinked, confused to see the confidence-machine Miya Atsumu had apparently run out of fuel.

"Miya, what happened?"

"He's havin' a crisis," Osamu said flatly. "Hinata's debut's comin' up. Thinks his spikes are off. Says he can't set right." He sighed. "Suna said something about yer food bein' 'like a cold beer on a sunny day, except better', so he's here for yer sushi."

"And her smile~" Atsumu cried, stretching toward you again.

Osamu's grip tightened. He shot his brother a sharp, warning look, then sighed.

"…And yer smile," he conceded through gritted teeth.

You could work with that.

Suna praising your food like that, the joy that comes with feeling appreciated, with feeling needed—made your cheeks redden a bit.

"I'll see what I can do. You can take a seat, Atsumu-kun," you said with a warm, easy smile. The kind that came from years of feeding people, listening to them, remembering their names.

The kind that made the twins just stare at you for a second, because suddenly the room had softened around you.

"I'm here for a different reason, though..." Osamu muttered, as if in a trance for a second, then shook his head like he could physically snap himself out of your spell. "Wait."

Both you and Atsumu turned to him.

"Why?" Osamu asked, irritation flaring out of nowhere.

"…What?" you echoed, confused at the fact he looked so pissed all of the sudden.

He jabbed a finger at Atsumu. "What's his name again?"

"Atsumu-kun?" you answered, confused.

"And?" He pointed at himself.

Your throat went dry.

"M-miya?"

His shoulders slumped like the fight went clean out of him.

"Yer impossible."

Atsumu snorted. You looked between them, puzzled.

"I'm confused," you said slowly. "What exactly did I do now?"

Instead of answering, Osamu dropped to his knees and wiggled his fingers just as Nigiri came trotting out from the spot she'd found under the main counter, tail high at the sound of his voice.

She chirped and launched herself at his hands, swatting gently, purring like a tiny engine. Osamu scooped her up and stood, pressing his face into her fur and nuzzling her with his nose.

Your knees went a little weak at the sight.

"Yer mother's a cruel woman, Nigiri," he complained into her fluff. "Won't even call yer pops by his name."

Nigiri purred louder, utterly delighted, and rubbing her face against his cheek like the cutest little traitor.

That's what this was about?

Osamu shot you a quick, resentful look—half accusation, half wounded pride—before turning toward the door.

"Oi—where are you taking her?" you protested.

"Joint custody, sweetheart," he said. "My turn today."

"That's not until tomorrow," you frowned. "What is going on?"

You looked to Atsumu for answers, but he just gave you a cheeky smile and a shrug as he turned to follow his twin.

"Atsumu-kun, What about the sushi?"

"That," he answered, glancing back at you with a wink, "was more than enough. Thank you, love. I feel like a winner now."

You heard them bickering all the way out.

"Yer such a baby, Samu!"

"Shut yer trap."

"Can ya make me an onigiri? I am kinda hungry."

"…Sure."

"Can I hold the kitty?"

"Fuck off."

The door chimed shut.

And the restaurant felt a little too quiet again.

Yuzu and Anko reappeared from the back, conspicuously casual about the whole thing. Yuzu glanced around the half-empty dining room with knitting brows.

"Huh. No fire... Cool."

Anko's gaze swept the floor. "Where's Nigiri?"

You exhaled, something fond and resigned all at once.

"Miya kidnapped her."

"Wow." Yuzu clicked her tongue. "You could sue for that. Full custody."

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Soft. Almost embarrassed.

"She loves him. I can't do that to her."

Yuzu paused, really looking at you this time. Not teasing or smirking, just… seeing. Something knowing flickered in her eyes—almost too close to recognition. She didn't say anything at first, only reached out and brushed her fingers gently along your arm.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "I figured."

You turned toward the kitchen before your chest could tighten any further.

"C'mon. Bentos won't pack themselves, and we have Fujimoto-san on table 5. He wants the usual. Break's over."

"Yes, chef," Yuzu said with a fond smile.

You tied your apron tighter as you entered the kitchen, letting muscle memory take over.

Rice first. Always rice first.

The warmth of it seeped into your palms as you portioned it out, grounding you in a way thoughts never could. Thumb and forefinger pressed gently—never too tight. The rice had to breathe. Had to stay soft, but hold its shape. You'd learned that the hard way.

Your mind wandered. And you thought of Osamu's hands—the sure way he shaped onigiri. Confident yet careful. Giving the rice air, space, while still holding it firmly enough that it wouldn't fall apart.

You thought of how he'd held Nigiri. Secure enough to keep her still. Gentle enough that she melted into him anyway. To the way his face softened without him even realizing it. To the way he'd nuzzled her without thinking like affection was second nature to him, even though you knew it wasn't.

To the traitorous, embarrassing thought that settled in your chest at the sight.

I want to be that cat.

You thought of the look he'd given you before leaving. That wounded flicker he tried—and failed—to hide.

Joint custody, he'd said. Half-petulant. Half-serious. Like it hadn't already slipped into place so naturally.

Your lips twitched despite yourself.

The truth was—you loved it.

The shared responsibility. The texts at odd hours. The way your lives overlapped now, not explosively or dramatically—just… quietly. Domestic and real. Soft yet firm like the rice that currently warmed your hands.

You loved knowing he was taking care of her. Loved picturing him half-asleep on his couch, with a bottle in hand and muttering sweet notings at a kitten that adored him.

Loved it a little too much.

And avoiding him wasn't fair. You knew that. Letting him yearn in silence while you pretended the almost-kiss hadn't rewired something inside you—it wasn't kind.

But neither was pretending you could just fuck him and walk away.

Because you couldn't. You knew that with terrifying certainty.

The thought of touching him—of finally giving in after days, maybe years, of whatever this was—only for it to mean nothing afterward made your stomach twist. Your breath go shallow. Your thoughts grow loud and sharp, buzzing in a way even your worst spirals never quite managed.

Frustration you could handle. Want, too.

Being disposable—you couldn't.

So you avoided it.

Just like you'd avoided so many things before.

Deny, delay. Pretend it will pass.

Except he was already everywhere. Taking up space in your life, in your routines, in your heart. And you didn't know how to make room for that without letting it consume you entirely.

Your phone buzzed against the counter. And something in you knew it was a text from him.

Miya: Forgot to say. I was there for a reason. Shin from uni sent me this. Remember this clown?

A link followed.

You wiped your fingers on a towel before tapping it.

Karami Itsuki.

Your former upperclassman's instagram profile.

The username was smug in a way only he could manage. The profile picture was worse—sharp smile and designer coat, camera angled just so like he was perpetually caught mid-judgment.

His following sat comfortably in the thousands. The feed was all dramatic close-ups of food, shadows heavy, captions dripping with authority and self-importance.

"Honest critiques. No mercy." Sat neatly in his bio, above a cooking magazine tag.

Your stomach tightened. Because of course it was him.

You stared at the screen a moment too long before typing back.

: Yeah. I remember. Makes sense he turned into asian Anton Ego. Miya: wwwwww : Be ready. He's coming for us.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Miya: Yeah. I know. Shin went out drinking with him. Said he mentioned our places.

Your jaw clenched.

: Then it's definite. Better hide your Little Chef, Linguini. It's gonna be ugly. Miya: For both of us?

You exhaled slowly.

:Yeah. For both of us. Miya: I mean I know he hates my guts. Always did. But why does he hate you? I remember he liked your cooking back in school. Said something bout your technique or whatever. Wasn't really listening tho :p

You knew he was trying to be funny. But your grip still tightened around the phone.

: I rejected him.

The pause this time was longer. Long enough to feel.

Miya: I see.

Just that. Two words. Heavy-loaded.

You locked your phone and set it face down on the counter.

Your gaze drifted to the bentos lined up neatly before you. Clean. Careful. Quietly excellent. Food made with intention, not spectacle. The kind of work Karami used to praise in public—and dissect in private. The kind that had never quite fit into his idea of greatness.

Your chest began to tighten. The low buzz in your skull grew louder, blurring Yuzu's voice—or was it Anko's? As they asked you if everything was okay.

You could handle Karami coming for you.

Your pride wasn't that fragile. It never had been.

But the thought of him circling Osamu—of turning that sharp attention his way—made something fierce and unfamiliar rise in your throat.

Because when it came to Osamu, you didn't trust yourself anymore.

You didn't know how far you'd go.

Or how hard you'd bite back.

"Okay," you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else. "Focus."

You reached for the lid of the first bento box and sealed it with care.

It felt symbolic.

As if closing it tightly enough might keep everything contained—your fear, your anger, your feelings. As if you could pour all of it into your work and lock it away where it couldn't hurt anyone.

But outside the kitchen, outside the warmth and order and rice-scented calm—

The world was already sharpening its knives.

Next chapter↪

tags. @kittygirl11829. @wh3reforangst. @raining4food. @ailaaailuj. @makiglazer. @meowing-through-life. @scarecrows-to-cherrytrees. @riotouswombats. @captain-shittykawa. @honey-deku♡ @xxxibsoongaa @megumiz-wife @extra-pickles

He was trying very, very hard to understand the person standing in front of him—a panicked foreign with bright orange hair sticking up from humidity, a shirt that was slightly damp from the walk in the sun, his phone clutched in one hand, and a burnt-out bulb in the other.

You assumed he was a tourist. Thought you might help. And honestly? He looked adorable—like someone had dropped a golden retriever into a foreign language exam. His expression showing a desperate blend of determination and impending meltdown.

You were halfway down the aisle, weaving between shelves full of screws, nails, and tools you were pretty sure you didn't know how to use, when you heard a soft stream of Japanese.

"Chotto... chigau... What was the word in Portuguese? It's… laito… No, that's English," he let out a small, frustrated sigh. "Come on, you practiced this…"

You couldn't help smiling.

This was cute. Very cute.

You stepped closer—slow enough not to startle him but confident enough that both he and the clerk looked up. He was mid-typing something into a translation app when you reached toward him, gently placing your hand over his and lowering his phone. His eyes went wide immediately at the contact: warm brown, huge and a little frantic, like he wasn't sure if you were here to save him or witness his demise.

"Ele quer uma lâmpada," you said lightly, turning to the clerk. [He wants a lightbulb.]

Relief washed over the man like a blessing. "Ah! Sim!"

When the clerk left to get the lightbulb, you looked up and winked at him with a smile—just a conspiratorial little gesture.

But it hit him like a spike to the chest.

He made a tiny sound. Not quite a gasp. Just… a noise of pure overload. His ears turned red. Then his cheeks. Then the back of his neck.

Partly because of the wink, mostly because your hand was still in his, and absolutely because he thought you were stunning. An angel. A stunning Japanese-speaking angel.

"Ah—obri—THANK YOU!" he blurted, the words tripping over each other like he couldn't decide which language to malfunction in.

You laughed softly, and it felt like a breeze cutting through the heat for him.

"You're welcome."

When you slowly withdrew your hand, his breath hitched like he'd been holding it the entire time.

The clerk returned with two different types of bulbs. Hinata picked the cheapest, bowed far too deeply, thanked him far too many times, and then turned back to you—still flustered and glowing with gratefulness.

"You—you speak Japanese?"

You nodded with a soft smile, asking the clerk in Portuguese for screws before switching languages as you glanced back at him.

"A little."

"A little?! Your Japanese is amazing!"

You couldn't help the slight blush on your own cheeks as you shook your head.

"I'm still not there yet..."

"No, no, no. It's amazing!" he insisted, hands flailing just slightly. "My Portuguese is still… terrible. I practiced the word for lightbulb last night, I swear, but then the clerk looked at me and I forgot everything."

"That happens," you said, tilting your head. "And your Portuguese isn't terrible. You're trying, and it shows. People here appreciate that."

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out.

A tiny spark of triumph lit your chest. Making such a cute guy flustered should not have been that satisfying—but oh, it was. You could tell he was sweet. Honest. You could read everything he felt right off his face, and you really liked that.

"Are you here enjoying the beaches?"

He nodded.

"Sorta. I moved here recently. I'm training for beach volleyball."

"Oh. I see..."

And it made sense now—the broad shoulders, the steady legs, the lean but athletic build, the spark of energy around him like he constantly ran on warm sunlight.

"Are you a Libero?"

He visibly deflated at that.

"Do you say that because I'm short?"

You couldn't help but laugh, hiding behind your hand. That earned you an embarrassed-but-amused smile from his end.

"No, no," you said in between laughs. "I said it because you have a lot of energy..."

"Ah, I see... I was a middle blocker in high school, actually."

"Interesting..."

"How did you learn Japanese?" he asked suddenly, making you happy that he asked about you, too.

"I like traveling. I'm not originally from here either—I'm on a study program," you explained as you paid for your screws and thanked the clerk. "Obrigado. Are you liking Rio so far?"

You turned to leave, half expecting—and half hoping—he would follow. He gave one more quick bow and a breathless thank you to the clerk, who was looking between the two of you with the mischievous smile of someone watching a romcom in a language he didn't understand but was absolutely rooting for anyway.

Hinata hurried after you, stepping into the heat-bleached sunlight.

"I do! I really like it here," he said quickly, answering your earlier question. "The water's warm—way warmer than Japan's. There's always so many people at the beach, and everyone is so nice. Even if it's hard to… You know, talk."

"Have you made any friends yet?"

The shift was instant.

Just a soft flicker in his expression, like the word friends tugged at his heart. Like a cloud passing over the sun.

That bittersweet saudade. You could see it. Relate to it, too, when you thought about your loved ones back in your home country.

"Not yet..." he admitted, voice small but honest.

A gentle smile curved your lips before you even realized it.

"You know… I have a group." You nudged his arm lightly with your shoulder. "Sorta like a club? A few more Japanese speakers—not natives, though. If you ever feel homesick, we meet every Thursday night at a bar not too far from here."

The effect on him was immediate. The shadow in his eyes vanished like it had never been there. And sunlight poured back in—bright, warm, and honestly breathtaking.

And then...that smile.

That huge, open, and absolutely beautiful smile. The kind of smile that felt like it reached straight inside your ribcage and squeezed your heart like a hug, sweet and warm and a little terrifying.

Time didn't freeze like in romcoms—but stretched instead.

The heat outside had softened into a gentle breeze, carrying the scent of pressed sugarcane from a nearby kiosk, mixing with the salt of the sea. A sweet-salty blend that wrapped around you both.

"Oh god," you thought, "Oh god, you could totally fall in love with this guy."

Hinata bowed again—awkward and sweet, like he didn't know what to do with all the gratitude piling up in his chest.

"Thank you," he said softly. "Really."

You stepped back toward your street, smiling with newly found fondness.

"No problem. Try not to start any more crises in hardware stores, yeah?"

He let out a breathy, helpless laugh. "I'll try!"

"It was very nice to meet you," you added, and the words felt truer than they should have for someone you'd just met. "Hopefully we'll see each other again."

You meant it—but the realization of how much you meant it burned under your skin. Embarrassment, excitement, something dangerously close to longing.

So you turned and started walking. And five steps later, you glanced back over your shoulder.

Hinata was still standing exactly where you'd left him, watching you leave. A little stunned. A lot charmed. Blushing up to his ears so hard it looked like the heat itself had kissed him.

And when he noticed you caught him staring, he waved—way too fast.

You only saw his flustered smile as you turned the corner, grinning to yourself.

You didn't hear the way he muttered to himself after:

"Yabai… kawaisugiru." [Oh no... She's too cute.]

It was only when you got back to your apartment that you realised you hadn't even asked for his name, nor had you given him yours. It hit you right as that painting hung nicely from a screw on the wall, and you'd wanted to bash your head against it.

It was silly, really.

The way every time you and your group of language-addicted university friends gathered at the bar over the next few weeks, you couldn't stop your eyes from looking up each time the door creaked open, half-expecting a bright pop of orange hair to appear.

And it was even sillier how the tiny sting of disappointment would settle low in your chest when it didn't.

But you'd been looking for him anyway—the whirlwind stranger with the sunlit smile who'd crossed your path for mere minutes and branded himself into your mind like he'd been there for years. It didn't make sense. It wasn't logical. You barely knew him.

But something about him had stayed with you, this bright and warm feeling, like catching the sun itself on your hand.

"Looking for your lightbulb guy again?" your friend Nina asked, nudging your arm with her elbow, that infuriatingly perceptive grin of hers adorning her lips.

"No Portuguese!" came the sharp scolding from across the table. 'The general', another of your friends—nervous intellectual, relentless rule-enforcer of language nights, and resident panic machine—adjusted his glasses without looking up from his notebook.

Nina rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Yeah, yeah. German night or whatever."

"No Portuguese!" he repeated, more distressed this time, because she was 100% doing it on purpose.

She stuck her tongue out at him and turned back to you with a wicked little glint in her eyes—one that made him sputter softly. He always acted like he hated her playing games with him, though the faint blush of his ears said otherwise.

"So?" she pressed—still in Portuguese, but The general had given up in correcting her for he was too busy being flustered. "Why hasn't he shown up yet? I'm starting to believe he doesn't exist. Maybe it was a heat-induced hallucination?"

You laughed, lifting a glass of sugarcane juice to your lips. The ice clinked gently in the dim, warm lighting of the bar—ceiling fans whirring lazily overhead, wood tables buzzing with multilingual chatter all around.

"It's alright, he'll show up if he wants, no biggie," you said, though the flutter in your stomach disagreed.

"You did tell him the name of the bar, right?"

Oh.

You bit your lip, an embarrassed smile creeping in as realization slapped you in the face.

No name. No bar. No way to ever see him again.

Nina burst into laughter as you hid your warming cheeks behind your hands.

"You didn't," she gasped in between laughs. "Are you dumb?"

You were laughing with her, begging to be left alone, when the bell over the entrance chimed, a sharp ding that sliced clean through the noise.

You looked up, didn't expect much.

But there he was.

Hinata Shōyō in the flesh.

A little breathless, a little flushed from the warm night outside, clutching the strap of a backpack like he'd been running around for hours.

His gaze swept the room, searching.

And when his eyes found you, they lit up. His whole face brightened with that same smile you'd replayed in your head more times than you cared to admit.

"What is it?" Nina asked, taking in your amused expression.

"It's him."

"There's no way—" she whispered as her eyes landed on Hinata, stunned.

The general beside her nearly knocked over his beer when he heard you.

"It's him! It's actually him!"

Nina jumped on the opportunity without a second to spare, looking at him with narrowed, mischievous eyes. "No Portuguese~"

But you barely heard any of it.

Hinata approached, steps hesitant but hopeful, still unconvinced that you were real and not some mirage he'd conjured out of homesickness and desperation.

He stopped right in front of your table, cheeks a soft pink.

"H-Hi," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, um… I've been trying every bar around here for… a while."

Your jaw nearly dropped. "Every—every bar?"

He nodded earnestly, somehow both sheepish and proud of himself.

"I forgot to ask for the name, so… I just kept checking all of them on Thursdays."

Nina snorted beside you. "That's either romantic or crazy."

You slapped her arm without even looking at her.

Hinata flinched, embarrassed. He hadn't understood much, but he'd caught "loucura" at the end.

"Ah—sorry! I didn't mean to sound creepy. I just really wanted to—um—see you again!" He waved his hands frantically, even redder now. "Not in a weird way! Just—because you were kind! And nice! And you helped me! And—"

You reached out without thinking, placing your hand over his to stop the verbal tailspin.

He froze.

"It's okay," you said softly, smiling. "I'm really glad you found us."

His blush went absolutely nuclear.

The general, meanwhile, had completely malfunctioned.

“My god—An actual Japanese native here—AT THE BAR—this is the greatest day of my life—okay we switch immediately—no more German night!! Japanese night!! We must honor our guest—"

Nina laughed. "You're fanboying so hard right now. You're going to scare him."

Hinata laughed too—a bright, warm, slightly shy sound.

"Thank you for having me!" he said, and the whole table melted a little.

You scooted, patting the chair beside you. "Sit. Please. If you want."

He sat carefully, like he was afraid he'd mess something up. You leaned a bit closer—your natural style, friendly and warm—and you could practically see the thoughts scrambling inside his head like hamsters running on a wheel, and the wheel was on fire.

"So..." you started, a little embarrassed at the admission. "I realised I never asked your name."

"Ah, yeah. Hinata Shōyō."

"Shōyō... I like it, it's pretty."

He nodded, posture straightening and still a little red. He'd gotten used to people calling him by his name without honorifics, but somehow hearing it from your lips made him feel a little bashful.

"And, um… what's yours? I never… um… asked either."

You laughed, cheeks warming. "Guess we're both idiots, huh?"

He brightened. "Then we match!"

It was ridiculous how fast your heart stuttered at that.

As you introduced yourself properly, the general was already drawing up makeshift new rules for Japanese night, Nina was teasing him mercilessly, and Hinata looked equal parts overwhelmed and delighted.

He kept sneaking glances at you. Every time he did, he smiled a tiny, private smile, way too happy at the fact he'd found you again. (He was starting to lose hope after the fifth bar)

And he stayed close—close enough that your arms brushed now and then, close enough that he could whisper to you quietly:

"Hey… um… you're really good at making this feel less scary."

"Scary?" you asked.

He nodded, eyes soft. "I'm a little nervous. But you're here, so… I'm okay now."

Your heart did not handle that well. Not even a little. It was too easy to be fond of him, too easy to enjoy the warmth of his presence and resent the cold in his absence.

And after that first night, you and Hinata slipped into a friendship so easily it felt like you were picking up where something had already started a life or two ago.

He'd join your group whenever he wasn't working—always arriving a little out of breath, always with a smile that made your chest tighten in ways you refused to unpack. Other days, you'd meet him at the beach, watching him play volleyball with literally anyone and everyone who needed a partner. Sometimes you'd help him translate—but you quickly realized that once Hinata was in his element, communication barriers didn't exist.

Volleyball was the language he was fluent in.

He adapted instantly to every new teammate—old man or teenager, tourist, first-timer or seasoned player—falling into their rhythm like he was born to match whoever stood beside him. You'd watch him, always astonished, always caught off guard by just how bright he was when he played.

Stronger, sharper, and quicker each week. He was truly a sight to behold.

And after every match, he'd jog toward you with that proud, boyish grin, sand sticking to his shins, and you'd hand him a bottle of water like it was your assigned role from the universe. He'd flop beside you in the sand, cataloguing everything he still needed to improve on. Listing weaknesses the same way other people list shopping items—no shame. Just determination.

And every time, after another match or two, he'd fix everything he was not happy about.

You'd pretend you weren't staring. You'd pretend your heart wasn't squeezing itself into tiny origami shapes.

The number of times you almost said "fuck it" and kissed him on that beach was… Embarrassingly high.

And the physical proximity didn't help.

Hinata had been startled at first by how touchy people were in Brazil—handshakes that turned into hugs, cheek kisses from strangers, friends who always touched an arm, a shoulder, a knee during conversation. But he warmed to it quickly, melting into it like sunlight.

The "Japanese nights"—that only happened because he showed up—were both a shelter for when he felt homesick, and a place where he could learn from the culture. Every time he came, whatever language chapter you were supposed to study got tossed out immediately.

"Japanese night!" The general would declare, already flipping through his notebook like a man seeing God for the first time.

He'd try to enforce the 'No Portuguese' rule, only to fail spectacularly once the bar glowed with soft string lights and the haze of too many caipirinhas. And after a couple rounds, everyone would be hugging, singing, dancing, and slurring half-Portuguese, half-Japanese sentences that sometimes made absolutely no sense and sometimes helped him greatly in learning the language. Someone always pulled out a guitar and sang tunes that everyone knew the lyrics to.

And he found it beautiful. How the warmth of the Brazilian sun seemed to warm everyone's hearts as well, how everyone seemed to be so open about loving and liking each other, much different from the poised—and arguably a little cold—Japanese society.

Hinata looked around one of those nights, admiring the chaos with a soft kind of longing. You were leaning against The general's shoulder, cheeks rosy, singing and laughing into the music, and you caught Hinata watching you with an expression you couldn't translate—warm… confused… something else.

"Are you two... dating?" he asked suddenly.

Drunken group vocals drifted behind you as you turned to him.

You laughed. "No, he's just a friend. Over here it's super normal for friends to be this close. There's nothing more to it."

Hinata blinked, trying to process that. You gently nudged his foot with yours, then pointed—subtly—to The general.

"Besides, he's already head over heels for someone else." You grinned. "Watch."

Hinata followed your gaze. The general, half-lidded and singing quietly to himself, was watching Nina as she swayed and laughed with such open, unguarded affection that even the dim bar lighting couldn't hide it. Absolutely smitten.

Hinata's breath hitched in soft amazement—and a little jealousy.

Not necessarily of them, but of the ease of that emotion, of how freely it was allowed to love in the open here. Kinda wishing he could do the same.

He pressed his lips together, chest tightening.

Your eyes widened when you felt his weight settle on you as he rested his head on your shoulder—hesitantly, like he was testing the weight of a dream.

"Then I guess I can, too," he murmured.

Your heart stuttered.

He smelled like salt and lime and sunscreen. And when you looked down at him, feeling the brush of his hair on your cheek, he was red up to his ears, eyes squeezed shut in mortified determination—like if he opened them, he'd lose the courage to keep leaning on you. His whole body vibrated faintly from nerves, as if he was fighting the urge to pull away.

A tiny, gentle laugh escaped you, and you rested your head on top of his.

He let out a breath you didn't know he'd been holding and sank into you completely.

You thought it was innocent.

Truly.

You thought it ended on that warm bar night, that little shared moment on your shoulder.

Little did you know how much he'd make your heart suffer as months passed and your friendship developed. Because once you gave him a green light to touch you, Hinata became very touchy.

Very.

He hugged you tight every time he saw you—full-body, earnest hugs that lifted you a little off the ground, like he'd missed you in a way that didn't make sense for two people who'd seen each other less than twenty-four hours earlier. He'd bury his face in your shoulder, saying things like:

"Ahhh, I needed this!"

And your heart?

Your poor, dumb, heart? Melted into a puddle every single time.

He rested his head on your shoulder constantly. On buses, on bar stools, in line at açaí stands. He did it like it was second nature—like leaning on you was simply where his body preferred to be.

But the worst of all were the beach days.

Those were lethal.

Because Hinata very quickly became obsessed—obsessed—with using your thighs as a pillow. At first, it was a drunken decision, then a sleepy one, then it became a habit so natural you didn't know how to survive it anymore.

He'd flop down next to you in the warm sand with his hair sticking up in all directions, and murmur:

"Can I?"

And before you even answered, he was already lowering his head into your lap, smiling up at you with the softest, most devastating expression imaginable. Innocent. Trusting. Sunlit and breathtaking.

You were just friends, though.

Of course. Obviously. Totally.

You watched anime together on your couch, knees touching, arms brushing, his laughter vibrating against your ribs when he leaned into you during funny scenes. You took naps together, limbs tangled so naturally it felt like you'd done it your whole lives. The general nearly had an aneurysm each time he caught you two asleep, spooning on the couch during movie nights. Nina kept taking pictures. And with all that, even when there was no space between you bodies most of the time, when you both cuddled, even—fully, openly, shamelessly—you'd still shook your heads violently every time someone asked if you were dating. (Which was very often.)

Specially at the beach, where strangers would always asume you were a couple.

Hinata always panicked, waving his hands in frantic denial while still lying on your thighs.

"No, no, no—we're just friends! Just—just friends!" He'd let out, while your fingers were literally in his hair.

The day he introduced you to Oikawa was chaotic in ways only Oikawa could bring.

You showed up to the beach as usual, expecting to spot Hinata stretching near the nets or chasing a stray ball barefoot through the sand. Instead, you found him already looking for you—practically vibrating with excitement, jumping up and down as he waved you over like a kid who'd found something shiny and couldn't wait to show it off.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

It felt good to see him like that—because lately, your bright sun had been dimming a little.

It wasn't anything dramatic. Hinata still laughed, still talked with his hands, still showed up every day. But his smiles had been arriving a second too late, like they had to travel farther to reach his face. He'd been sleeping more, stretching longer, rubbing at his shoulders with a quiet little frown when he thought no one was looking. Some days, he moved like gravity had decided to be cruel to him in particular.

You could tell he was struggling—with work, with volleyball, with learning how to exist in a country that wasn't his, under a sky that didn't quite feel like home.

Even when the Japanese nights with your group helped—late dinners, loud conversations, shared laughter that echoed off concrete walls—you could tell they didn't fix everything. It softened the edges, sure. But something in him still felt… unsteady. Like he wasn't sure where to set his feet anymore.

You didn't know what to do about it, not really. So you did what felt right. You stayed close without crowding him. Gave him space when he went quiet and offered your ear when he was ready to talk. Let him lean without making it obvious.

You had no idea how much that meant to him.

So seeing him now—eyes bright, grin easy, energy sparking off him like sunlight on water—made your chest warm with relief.

And maybe a little jealousy.

Because whoever this "Great King" was, he'd managed to pull Hinata back into himself.

"You're gonna love him—!! Oh—actually—he's a little—uh...—just, don't believe everything he says."

"Shōyō, that is not a reassuring introduction."

"It's fine! He's fine! Mostly!" he assured you, already waving him over.

Oikawa strutted across the sand, sunglasses on, shirt unbuttoned one button too many. He fit every description Hinata had ever given from his high school days perfectly—radiating that unmistakable 'I'm the protagonist' energy.

"Well helloooo~," he sang in Argentinian-accented Portuguese, "So you're the mysterious friend Chibi-chan kept talking about—"

Hinata smacked him in the arm so fast you barely saw it.

"I DID NOT—!!"

"You did," Oikawa hummed innocently, eyes sparkling.

Hinata blushed hard enough to turn into a huge, pouting tomato, and you could only hide a laugh behind your hand because it was too cute—dangerously so—and if you hadn't rein yourself in, you might've actually done something reckless. Like kiss him. Right there. In front of everyone.

And yet, beneath the laughter, something shifted.

Meeting Oikawa—this living, breathing fragment of Hinata's past—made the future feel closer. Sharper.

More real.

Hinata's departure was a silent, ticking clock that the two of you pretended you couldn't hear. But you knew it. He'd go back to Japan when his two-year training ended. You'd always known. Even when you let yourself believe—just a little—that this could last forever. That he would always be beside you. That you could keep bathing in his warmth, in his laughter, in the steady comfort of his presence.

That he would always be your sun.

And for the first time, the thought of losing that light hurt.

But you swallowed the feeling. Watched the duo lose against the infamous 'Buy-me-a-beer' brothers, watched Hinata's fiery eyes sparkle even in defeat—already lit with the promise of next time. Watched him laugh it off, already thinking ahead, already chasing something brighter.

Watched them train the next day.

And then the rematch.

Electric.

Hinata in full competitive mode—eyes sharp, movements precise, all instinct and fire. Oikawa barking orders like a true Great King, voice cutting clean through the air, while the brothers yelled absolute nonsense every time they scored, laughing like chaos itself.

You cheered your lungs out for him, hands cupped around your mouth, screaming "VAI, SHOYOU!!" until he nearly tripped from laughing mid-sprint.

They won in the end—because of course they did—and Hinata sprinted to you immediately afterward, high on adrenaline and sunlight, practically throwing himself into your arms.

"You saw that?! We won!"

You screamed and laughed as he lifted you from the floor and spun you around.

"You were incredible, Shōyō!"

He set you down and pulled away from you only briefly, with his arms still around you, and that spark in his eyes you loved so, so much.

"They say they're gonna buy us dinner! Wanna come?"

And just like that, the countdown in your chest ticked louder. The joy stayed. But it hurt now.

You smiled, small and crooked, and avoided his eyes. This was his moment—shared with an old rival, a piece of his past—and it felt wrong to anchor him to you. To pretend you weren't already starting to loosen your grip.

You were trying to teach yourself how to step back. Because you knew that only that way, his departure wouldn't kill you.

"That sounds amazing, but..." you murmured. "I think I'll pass. I have to study..."

He seemed a little sad at that, but he recovered quickly—because he always did—giving you a thumbs-up and one of those beautiful, earnest smiles that had undone you from the start.

"Okay! Gambatte!"

You nodded. Said goodbye.

And cried the entire walk back to your apartment.

Every week, the sands of Rio felt warmer, the sunsets sweeter, the nights longer—but the calendar kept thinning anyway. And even though Hinata always answered your questions with bright smiles and big energy, he never brought up Japan unless absolutely necessary.

And you didn't bring it up at all.

You kept hanging out like always: late-night anime marathons, naps tangled together, bossa nova at the beach to help him learn Portuguese, volleyball in the sun. You let yourself be happy and tried—really tried—not to think about the fact that the happiness had an expiration date.

Sometimes, though, you caught him watching you.

Not with worry or sadness—Hinata never liked showing either—but with a soft, lingering look, like he was memorizing you. Your smile, your hair, your voice. The way you said his name.

He pretended he wasn't doing it.

You pretended not to notice.

Two cowards in love, dancing around it beautifully.

One evening, after he'd had a first match with Nestor Santana as his partner, the two of you stayed at the beach as the sun dipped toward the water. The sky was turning honey-gold, and the sea breeze had softened into something gentle, almost shy.

Hinata stretched out beside you, head once again finding your lap like gravity had chosen you specifically.

"Portuguese practice?" you teased, pulling up the playlist you'd curated for him.

He perked up immediately. "Yes!"

As usual, you put on some bossa nova—soft guitar, warm vocals, the kind of music that sounds like sunlight feels. Hinata hummed along, his foot tapping lightly against the sand. The waves rolled in, rhythmic, slow, and for a moment, you forgot the world had anything else in it besides this.

After a few songs, he tilted his head back to look at you, eyes filled with curiosity.

"Ne… you hear this word a lot."

"What word?”

"Saudade."

You smiled softly. "Ah. That one."

He waited—bright, trusting, and eager to learn.

"It's a feeling that's… hard to translate," you began, combing your fingers gently through his hair. "It's like natsukashii, but… sadder. Emptier. It's missing something or someone so much that the feeling itself becomes kind of… beautiful."

Hinata's eyes softened, lashes fluttering as he processed it.

"Beautiful sadness…" he whispered.

"Yeah."

He was quiet for a moment, listening as the next song mentioned the word again and again.

Then he laughed, a small, embarrassed puff of air.

"I think… I think I'll feel saudade of you when I go back to Japan."

Your heart clenched so suddenly you almost dropped your phone.

Hinata didn't notice—or pretended not to—because he looked away toward the sea, face glowing pink from the sunset, or maybe from the honesty he hadn't meant to let slip.

You swallowed.

"Shōyō…"

"I mean—" he rushed in, waving his hands a little, "—just, you know—Because you're the first person who made me feel at home here. And you teach me so much. And you're always with me and you laugh with me and—"

He stopped. Shoulders tight, voice small.

"…and I like being here with you... So much."

The waves kept crashing. The sky kept glowing.

And your fingers kept moving through his hair like you weren't fighting a small war inside yourself.

You leaned down just a little.

"I'll feel saudade of you too," you whispered.

And Hinata's breath hitched. Then he closed his eyes and relaxed fully, sinking into your lap with a small, somewhat sad smile that made your chest ache in places you didn't know existed, looking down at him and playing with his hair of fire.

And as the sun disappeared behind the waves, turning the sky into a deep coral pink...

your suffering had officially begun.

You shouldn't have cried at Nestor's wedding.

But you absolutely did.

It was impossible not to—everything was too beautiful. Fairy lights strung between palm trees. A warm breeze carrying the smell of tropical flowers.

Nestor and Nice looked stupidly, beautifully in love—hands trembling as they held each other, vows spoken with voices that cracked halfway through.

Hinata sniffled so loudly during the ceremony that the couple snorted in the middle of their vows. You squeezed his hand. He squeezed yours back.

You watched the couple kiss, watched everyone cheer and clap, watched love spill everywhere just like the champagne in their glasses—loud, open, and unapologetic.

And something traitorous bloomed in your chest.

A little bit of sorrowful envy.

Hinata found you at the edge of the venue a little later, sitting alone beneath a string of lights, blinking rapidly to keep your emotions from spilling over. Everyone danced barefoot on the grass, the kind of dancing that's more swaying than anything, with warm bodies pressed together, and music so soft and happy it seemed to float between guests.

He crouched in front of you, worry softening his features.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

You nodded—planting a smile on your lips a little too quickly. Without hesitation, he sat beside you, legs brushing yours, shoulder touching your shoulder.

The music drifted from the dance floor—a rendition of 'Besame Mucho' by João Gilberto that made it feel like it was laughing cruelly at you.

You looked at him. At his bright eyes, his sun-kissed skin, at the smile that held a sadness nehind it he tried to hide because he knew you were sad, too.

"Shōyō…" you started, but stopped yourself.

I love you.

It was right there—on the tip of your tongue, trembling, begging to be said.

But you swallowed it.

Because how could you do that to him now?

Hinata Shōyō, your sun—who came here for a dream, who worked every day with fire in his chest, who was leaving soon because he had to, because he was chasing his place in the sky.

You couldn't be the gravity that held him back, no matter how much you wanted to keep him close.

So, with tears pricking your eyes, you whispered with a smile instead:

"...I'm going to feel so much saudade of you when you leave."

His breath hitched. You watched as his eyes searched for something in yours, and you feared for your secret. But whether he found what he was looking for or not, you couldn't tell.

He pulled you into him—not the usual eager hug, but something deeper, tighter. Arms wrapped around you fully. Chin pressing into your shoulder like he was trying to anchor himself to the moment.

"Me too," he murmured, voice trembling just enough for you to notice. "More than you think."

You closed your eyes. Held him back. Pretended it didn't break your heart.

And the day Hinata finally left, something in you left with him.

Not in a dramatic, fall-to-your-knees way—no. It was way quieter than that. Hollow. Like someone had scooped out the warm center of you and forgotten to put it back. Like the days had no sun and no moon. Only cold.

You kept moving, because life didn't stop for a heartbreak you weren't even allowed to admit. You still went to class, still met your friends at the bar every Thursday; still listened to guitar chords drifting over the sand; still watched volleyball games spark and dissolve in the glow of late afternoons.

But the world felt… muted.

You laughed a second too late. Smiled a little too small. Stared at the sea a little too long as if calculating swimming distances your body wouldn't ever survive.

Your group noticed. Of course they noticed—they weren't blind, and you weren't exactly subtle.

Nina cornered you one night, on a Christmas party you'd forced yourself to go to because you thought it might help you. Instead, you just sat outside the venue, a bourbon instead of a caipirinha. No chaser. The melted ice in the glass had numbed your fingers minutes ago, but you didn't care.

She watched you for a second, leaning her elbows on the railing of the balcony, overlooking the water. The waves rolled in and out, slow, lazy, and uncaring. You felt like shouting at them for not noticing your world had ended.

"C'mon," she said gently. "O que houve contigo? What's with you lately?"

You didn't look at her.

Couldn't.

Instead, your eyes followed the dark line of the horizon, where the water melted into the sky—the direction you'd been unconsciously staring at every day now. Wondering whether the ocean was thinner somewhere out there. Whether it was as cold as Shoyou had told you once.

Your throat tightened.

And before you could stop yourself, you whispered:

"É que… eu… sinto tanta falta do sol, Nina." [It's just that... I... miss the sun so much, Nina.]

It wasn't about the weather. It was summer, after all.

Her face softened instantly, and she wrapped both arms around you from the side, pulling you close in a wordless, protective hold.

"Oh, amiga…" she murmured, pressing her cheek to your temple.

And you hated yourself a little for feeling so deeply when the entire time you'd been 'just friends', so broken when on occasions you'd denied it yourself, so betrayed, when you'd been the one who stopped your own words when you were about to confess.

But grief doesn't care about labels, does it? It doesn't care about deadlines, or longing confirmation, or cowardly loves that never get to be and stay in stories you'll tell friends once the wounds heal and in soft bossa nova songs you cry yourself to sleep to while they haven't.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the familiar salt of the sea. The night breeze lifted your hair, warm in that uniquely Brazilian way that always felt like a gentle embrace. You wished for the hundredth time that Hinata had stayed to watch the sunset with you just one more time. Just one more golden hour with him laughing beside you. Just one more evening where you could pretend he'd never leave.

Little did you know, all the way back in Sendai, in a room still half-filled with unpacked suitcases, Hinata Shōyō curled forward on his mattress, phone clutched to his chest like it could anchor him to the life he'd left behind.

Bossa nova trickled softly from the tiny Bluetooth speaker on his nightstand. The same songs you'd played for him on the beach, watching the sun hide behind the waves, explaining what saudade meant while he rested his head on your thighs.

He understood it now. He understood it too well.

His chest tightened, and his eyes stung, then overflowed—sudden, embarrassing, and impossible to stop. He swiped at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, but the tears kept coming, dropping onto the album cover glowing on his phone screen.

Outside, the snow poured steadily, softening the world into pale silence. The quiet Sendai landscape felt suddenly so small compared to the vastness of the sea he'd fallen in love with—that sea that smelled like salt and sun-warmed skin and the laughter of strangers who welcomed him like family.

He missed Brazil.

He missed the freedom in the air, the warmth of its people, the open affection he'd never experienced so deeply before.

But mostly…

God, he missed you.

He curled in tighter, shaking a little and letting the quiet guitar and soft Portuguese vocals wash over him.

If anyone asked, he'd say it was just jet lag.

Not heartbreak. Not loneliness. Not the ache of missing you so much it hurt to breathe.

Because the truth was cruel and simple:

Japan had his dream. Brazil had you.

And he didn't know how to live in a world that kept both so far apart.

"Nii-san! Christmas dinner is ready!"

Natsu's voice rang from the living room, pulling him back. He swallowed hard, wiped his face again, and prayed he could sit at that table and tell his family all the stories they were waiting to hear about Brazil—without breaking down in tears and admitting in front of all of them just how badly he wished he'd brought you with him.

But life kept happening, the show must go on.

Time didn't heal everything, but it softened the edges. Slowly, too slowly. Clumsily. Like both of you were learning how to walk with a bruise you kept bumping into.

Hinata threw himself into volleyball the way he always had—with every atom of energy his body could muster. Morning runs in the cold, solo drills before sunrise, practices that left his legs trembling. Scrimmages where he pushed himself until his lungs felt like fire.

Tryouts began. Then callbacks. Then more training.

His body grew steadier, sharper, stronger…but the ache in his chest stayed the same.

And every night, when he finally collapsed onto his bed, Brazil crept back in—and he would always dream of that same sand under his toes, the warm press of your thigh under his cheek, and the sound of bossa nova floating through the breeze.

Sometimes he'd open your chat.

Not to send anything. Just to look.

Your last conversation full of cheerful emojis and polite support, both of you pretending not to read between the lines.

Every now and then he'd send you a picture—a snowy street, some silly food he tried, a selfie where he looked unbearably homesick but smiled anyway.

You always replied. Not instantly, maybe not in paragraphs. But always there.

And that was enough for him to breathe again. Sometimes.

Your days went back to being what they'd always been—classes, studying, part-time work, your language group… the things you used to love without thinking.

But now everything carried the faint aftertaste of him.

A stray volleyball on the beach made your heartbeat stutter and then hurt, someone laughing brightly made you look twice. Bossa nova felt like someone had unfolded those origami shapes in your ribs into sheet music.

You finished your study program. Your friends celebrated you. You smiled and danced.

But every night, when your painted and decorated apartment went quiet, you'd open Hinata's messages and read them again.

And again.

And again.

You sent him pictures too—sunsets, your group's goofy outings, Nina hugging the general while he pretended not to blush.

Short messages, kind, warm.

Careful.

Always careful.

Neither of you mentioned the beach. Or heartbreak. Or how much it hurt when you accidentally said saudade in front of someone else and had to swallow tears.

But you sent him a voice note once—just you laughing at something your group did—and Hinata listened to it seven times, smiling so hard his cheeks cramped.

So you both kept going.

Life kept happening, the show must go on.

But your routines had a new, quiet rhythm.

Shōyō☼: Good luck on your exam tomorrow! : Ganbatte on your tryouts! You're going to crush them. Shōyō☼: Look at this curry I made! It's kind of ugly www. : Looks delicious???? Don't disrespect the curry like that. : Nina and the general won a trivia contest today. Shōyō☼: Ehhhh so cool!! I wanna see you guys again. : Saudades. Shōyō☼: (typing… deleting… typing again…) Me too.

Hours. Days. Sometimes weeks between messages. But the connection never faded.

It was quiet and gentle, as it always had been. Like a low tide that never fully receded.

One quiet Wednesday night, you were on your bed, half-studying, half-asleep, half-bored, when your phone buzzed.

Shōyō☼: Today was kinda rough.

You paused.

He rarely said things like that. Not without stuffing them between emojis and sunshine.

: You okay?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then came back.

Shōyō☼: Yeah just… tired. I miss Brazil a lot today.

Your chest tightened softly.

: Brazil misses you too. Some days will be heavier.

A minute passed.

Then:

Shōyō☼: Is it weird that I miss talking to you the most? Even when we text all the time it feels like… I dunno… not the same.

Your breath stilled.

It wasn't a confession. But it was definitely close enough to hurt a little.

You stared at the screen, heart thumping painfully with that familiar mix of joy and sorrow curling in your stomach.

And then typed carefully, fingers trembling:

: Not weird at all, Shōyō. I miss you too.

He didn't answer right away, and it made you wonder if you said too much. But then your phone buzzed again.

Shōyō☼: Oh!! Also!! I have my official debut next week!! Like… my actual first pro match! MSBY Jackals vs Schweiden Adlers! I'll finally show Kageyama what I can do.

You smiled—a real one, warm and involuntary.

Shōyō☼: I wish… I wish you could see it. It'd calm me down a lot if you were in the crowd. I don't get stomach aches before matches anymore tho, don't worry.

Your eyes softened, drifting instinctively to the corner of your room, where an already-packed suitcase sat.

Your flight was in three days.

And the tickets to the match were bought weeks ago—courtesy of Oikawa Tōru, who had somehow gotten your number and sent them with a cryptic:

"He'll want you there. And you'll want to be there. Don't be late. And don't spoil the surprise~ (๑>؂•̀๑)"

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard.

You almost told him. Almost typed: I'm coming, you dummy. I wouldn't miss your debut for anything. I miss you too much to stay away.

But you swallowed the confession.

Instead, you wrote:

: You'll do amazing. I'll be cheering for you, don't worry.

He responded immediately.

Shōyō☼: Haha sorry for being clingy! Just thinking a lot today. But thank you… hearing from you always helps.

You held the phone to your chest with a fluttering heart. He didn't have to thank you. In three days, you'd be close enough to touch him again. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, to hear his laugh in person, to see that first brilliant spike with your own eyes again.

And maybe… maybe this time you wouldn't look away when the feelings got too big.

Maybe neither would he.

You hadn't been that nervous since finals week—maybe ever.

Your hands were sweating, your heart was dancing frenetically, and the stadium lights felt too bright—like they knew you were hiding a secret under your jacket:

You were here for him.

For Hinata Shōyō.

Your sun. Your saudade in human form.

The arena buzzed around you as you waved through the crowd to your seat, warm and alive, filled with gold, black, and white. Flags waved, fans shouted chants you didn't know, and your seat vibrated faintly from the bass of the speakers. You sat down, curling your fingers around the strap of your bag like it could anchor you to something, anything. You inhaled slowly—

—and then froze when you heard a familiar name.

"You think Hinata is at the toilet right now?" a small blonde girl whispered, hiding a small laugh behind her hand.

"He said he didn't get stomach aches anymore..." the freckled boy beside her murmured.

"You think that's even true?" came another, unamused voice from behind them.

You turned your head just an inch.

And recognized them instantly—not from real life, but from Hinata's wallpaper.

Yachi Hitoka—tiny, blonde, and vibrating with anxiety. Yamaguchi Tadashi—kind-faced, freckled, and clutching a Jackals towel a little too tightly. Tsukishima Kei—tall, blond, and unimpressed by the entire world.

They were talking about him.

Their Hinata. Your Shōyō.

A strange dizziness hit you, and you laughed to yourself. The universe had a sense of humor, and tonight it was being loud. Out of the entire stadium… You were seated next to the people who shaped him, who loved him, who knew him in ways you only saw glimpses of.

You were trying very hard not to stare when Yachi bent down too quickly, panickedly searching for something in her bag, and elbowed you right in the arm.

"AH—! I'M SO SORRY!" she squeaked in English, bowing so fast she nearly headbutted you next.

You quickly shook your hands. "No, no, I'm okay! Don't worry!"

She sagged in relief—mostly because you were chill about it, partly because you answered in Japanese.

"…Thank goodness. I would've died if I bruised a stranger before the game even started…"

You smiled, soft and warm.

"Are you... Hitoka by any chance?"

She blinked. "…Y-yes? Do we know each other?"

"Oh! No, I just recognized you from some photos. I'm a friend of Shōyō's. From Brazil"

And all three of them went completely still.

Yachi's mouth fell open. "Are you... Are you Y/N?"

When you nodded, their shock only grew. Yamaguchi's eyes widened comically. Tsukishima choked on absolutely nothing.

You stared at them, suddenly a little confused.

"…Um. All good?"

They exchanged looks—silent, intense, chaotic telepathy happening in real time. Then Yamaguchi, bless his sweet heart, blurted:

"Hinata talks so much about you."

Yachi nodded violently.

"Like—so much. You're gorgeous by the way!"

Tsukishima groaned, burying half his face in his scarf. "Oh my god, he actually didn't make you up.”

"I—he… talks about me?"

"Constantly," Yachi said, small fists clenched to her chest. "He won't shut up about you—uh—sorry, that sounded rude—! He's just—happy? Like really, really happy when he talks about you."

Yamaguchi tilted his head, careful, but so curious he couldn't afford to not ask right now, with you right in front of him.

"Are you two…?"

"Oh—no, no," you said quickly, waving your hands, heart hammering. "We're just friends."

They all shared a look, and it suddenly felt nostalgic, seeing that look again. That loud, judgmental, liar look you got used to back when Hinata was in Brazil.

Your heart stuttered so hard at that you almost missed the lights dimming. You cleared your throat, staring back down at the court as the Jackals jogged out for warm-ups.

And then—There he was.

Same bright hair. Same brilliant energy. Same smile that hit you like summer.

He looked… different. No—he looked the same. But also so, so different.

The boy you met in Brazil had been bright—all potential, all warmth, all eagerness. The man warming up on the court now was that same brightness distilled into purpose. Focused. Sharper. Radiant.

His body moved like it knew exactly what it was made for. His smile lit the entire stadium.

And your heart… oh, your heart hurt. It swelled. It cracked. It overflowed.

Because he looked so happy. Because he looked like the dream you used to fall asleep next to on the sand. Because distance hadn't dimmed any feeling you thought it had—not about him, not for you.

Your chest tightened at the sight of him jumping, running, laughing with his teammates like your world hadn't tilted the day he left.

Tsukishima noticed. Because of course he did. And seeing those eyes, the way they shone, following Hinata's every move, made him smirk faintly and mutter:

"…Sure. Just friends."

Yamaguchi elbowed him. He smirked harder.

The match finally started, and every jump made your pulse spike. Every receive made you exhale in relief. Every spike made your whole body react—muscles tightening, breath hitching, the kind of involuntary joy that comes from watching someone you love do what they were born to do.

And you reacted exactly like someone who knew just how many dawns he trained through. Someone who witnessed the first steps toward this very court.

He was brilliant, beautiful. And you were so proud you thought you might cry.

Hinata spiked—and scored—and you nearly jumped to your feet.

Yamaguchi grinned. "He improved that angle."

"He improved everything," Yachi agreed, eyes shiny.

Tsukishima glanced your way again, noticing how emotional you looked.

"He's been different since he came back from Brazil," he said casually.

You swallowed.

"Yeah," you whispered. "He's worked really hard."

Tsukki hummed—a knowing, almost annoying hum—and looked back at the court.

The match ended in roars and applause. Your ears rang, your cheeks were wet, and you didn't even remember when you started crying.

Yachi tapped your shoulder gently.

"Um... Y/N-san?"

You wiped your eyes quickly, hoping you didn't look as wrecked as you felt, and smiled at her.

"Y-yes?"

"We're all celebrating Hinata's debut later... Would you like to come?"

"It's a Christmas party!" Yamaguchi added.

Your answer was instant.

"Absolutely. I'd love to. Thank you, Hitoka-san."

The night air outside the restaurant was cold in that late-December Japan way—sharp enough to sting your lungs when you breathed too deep, clean enough that the city felt awake and hushed all at once. Your breath fogged faintly in front of you. Strings of Christmas lights spilled warm gold across the sidewalk, reflected in the thin sheen of melted snow and afternoon rain that still clung to the pavement.

The street smelled like fried food and sugar—karaage and something sweet and seasonal you couldn't quite place. Somewhere down the block, a busker strummed a slow, melancholy tune, the notes wobbling gently through a portable amp, half-swallowed by traffic and winter coats.

You'd been standing there for ten whole minutes. Maybe fifteen. Maybe an hour. Time lost all its meaning when your heartbeat was trying to escape through your ribs.

Yachi had stayed with you, sweet and chatty, filling the waiting silence with little stories about the first time she'd met Hinata—how he'd given her courage she didn't know she had, how he made people feel braver just by being there. She talked about university, about design projects, about life moving forward.

You nodded. Smiled. Tried to listen.

You felt a little guilty, because your nerves wouldn't let you be fully present. Your attention kept slipping back to your phone, to the familiar name lighting up your lockscreen again and again—messages stacked like tiny, impatient bricks:

Shōyō☼: Did you watch the stream?? God, I'm so tired www DID YOU SEE THAT LAST POINT THO??? ARE YOU AWAKE?? HELLOOOOOO

You didn't respond. Not because you didn't want to—but because you didn't trust yourself not to type out the truth the moment your fingers touched the screen.

I'm here. I'm already here. Where are you?

The surprise felt worth the guilt—right up until now, when your brain started whispering doubts in the spaces between breaths.

What if he's too tired? What if this is weird? What if he's moved on?

Your stomach twisted so tightly it felt like your ribs were holding their breath. You pressed a hand to your sternum, fingers curling into your coat, and inhaled slowly—repeating the small prayer you'd picked up in Brazil without ever meaning to.

Calma… calma…

Headlights swept over the sidewalk. A van rolled to the curb. Laughter spilling before the doors even slid open—voices overlapping in post-match chaos.

"Ah! It's them!" Yachi chirped, and the sound sent your pulse into overdrive.

Bokuto jumped out first, already mid-sentence, hooking one arm around Hinata's neck even before his feet hit the ground.

"YOU WERE AMAZING OUT THERE!" he boomed, messing with his hair and shaking him like a bobblehead.

"Bo—Kuto—san—stop—" Hinata wheezed, laughing that loud, sun-crackling laugh you had replayed in your head a thousand times with his hands fumbling uselessly as he tried to pry Bokuto off.

He looked a little tired, a little sweaty, hair mussed from all the movement—but he was glowing in that particular way only Hinata managed: like he'd swallowed the sun and it leaked out in his grin.

You drank him in the way parched people drink water. You drank the sight of him in like someone who's been wandering in total darkness, and finally got a sight of the sun again.

Your sun.

Then he turned.

His eyes swept over the small cluster of smokers huddled outside, the street slick with melted snow, the warm glow of the restaurant window—and then they landed on you.

His smile collapsed like a dropped curtain, and his whole body went still—jaw slack, shoulders folding inward, as if the cold had suddenly reached straight through his chest and knocked the air out of him.

For one terrifying second, he looked almost… lost.

Atsumu, halfway behind him, followed his frozen gaze and let out the most obnoxiously delighted, "Ohoooo?"

Kiyoomi paused mid-step, one eyebrow lifting slowly. Bokuto's hand slipped from Hinata's head, forgotten.

Meian frowned faintly.

"What's up? What are we staring at?" he muttered, craning his neck. Because Hinata was looking at you the way people look at miracles, and that in itself—his shiny eyes, his rising chest as he held in his breath—was a sight for sore eyes.

"…Hi," you managed, the word barely more than fog in the cold air.

But something in the sound of your voice broke whatever fragile spell had frozen him. Tears pooled in his eyes so fast that a surprised gasp escaped you.

"Shōyō—"

But you barely managed to let a sound out, barely managed to open your arms before he was crashing into you.

You stumbled back a half-step from the sheer force of it and let out a tiny, startled laugh as his arms locked around your waist with a force that was half joy, half desperation. His face buried into your neck, and you felt the dampness of his eyes against your skin.

His hair tickled your ear. His heartbeat felt like a hummingbird trapped against your chest.

You didn't realize you'd started to cry, too, until you felt his fingers fist the back of your coat after a first sob broke through you.

He held you like he'd been drowning. Like he'd forgotten how to breathe without you. And when he finally spoke, it was a whisper—ragged and trembling against your neck, in that accent you'd missed so much it hurt to even remember, but was now right here.

"Senti... tanta saudade de você…" [I missed you so much.]

The breath on your skin sent a chill down your spine. His scent—sweat from the match, a hint of citrus shampoo, and something unmistakably him—fled your senses until everything hurt in the sweetest way.

Your voice broke as your hands curled up his back, pulling him impossibly closer.

"Eu também, Shōyō… tanta, tanta saudade." [Me too, Shōyō. So, so much.]

He exhaled like he'd been waiting years. Centuries to hear that.

Behind you two, the team was very much staring.

Atsumu's grin stretched wide, sharp and triumphant. "Is that the Brazil girlfriend?" he called, eyes wicked.

"I KNEW THEY WERE REAL!" Bokuto crowed, beaming.

Meian sighed, long-suffering but smiling despite himself, and planted a hand on each of their heads, making them yelp.

"He said she was not his girlfriend," he hissed under his breath.

"But he said—"

"Well, well," Meian cut in, already steering them toward the restaurant, "let's celebrate inside. Give them some space."

The two rascals protested loudly as he ushered them away, murmuring a few indulgent 'there, there's like he was corralling overexcited children.

Hinata pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still warm against your cheeks, palms cradling your face as if afraid you might vanish if he blinked too hard.

You were certain he was going to kiss you.

Everyone was.

Even Meian paused at the door, eyebrows lifting as he took in the scene, before Sakusa nudged him sharply in the side with a dry, unimpressed, "Get on with it."

Meian only shrugged, a knowing smirk tugging at his mouth, and finally turned away.

Hinata's eyes were glossy with tears as they traced your face slowly, revisiting freckles, the curve of your lashes, the familiar shape of your mouth. As if he were committing you to memory all over again.

His voice trembled when he spoke again.

"I thought—I didn't— You didn't answer— I thought maybe—" He swallowed, breath shaky. "You're really here. What are you doing here?"

You blinked hard, chasing away the sting in your eyes, forcing a smile that felt a little fragile around the edges.

"I came to see your match, dummy!" you said, letting out a small laugh to steady yourself. "Aaand to apply for a work or study visa. Something like that."

His expression shifted in a blink—concern, then hope.

"Where are you staying?"

"At a hotel. I'm looking for somewhere to rent while I get all the paperwork ready—"

"Come live with me."

The words landed between you like a dropped glass. You froze.

"Eh?"

"I have space, stay with me—" His words tumbled out, urgent and sudden.

"Shōyō—I—"

It was too much, too sudden.

You hadn't seen him in so long, and in the span of minutes he had cried into your neck, held you like he was afraid to let go, and now he was asking you to live with him?

With what intentions exactly? He couldn't have possibly been thinking straight.

And you knew. You knew if you moved in with him now, the careful boundaries you'd drawn would evaporate, and every feeling you'd repressed during his stay in Brazil would bloom open again and probably swallow you whole.

Your mind was a thousand tiny images at once: moving boxes, nights you had spent cuddling with him in Brazil, another "we're just friends" that would tear you apart, the terrifying thought of confessing and losing him, and above them all—the wild, shimmering possibility of waking up next to him every morning.

You couldn't survive the heartache, the uncertainty; you couldn't let him play with your heart again without meaning to.

But god save you—

His eyes, his face in that moment—begging for an answer, begging for a yes.

They made it very hard to not give in.

Yachi, who had witnessed the entire moment with the wide-eyed devotion of a rom-com extra, finally stepped in—like a saving beam of awkward, earnest sunlight.

"Hi-Hinata! Um—maybe you two can talk about this later?" she said, hands fidgeting nervously in front of her coat. "People are waiting for you inside. We'll celebrate first, then—after—talk?"

Her voice carried the careful gentleness of someone trying very hard not to intrude.

Hinata blinked, as if the world snapped back into focus. His shoulders relaxed, eyes softening.

"Right. Sorry."

You offered Yachi a small, grateful smile—one edged with something fragile—and she returned it with a knowing nod that felt like a promise: "I've got you."

You needed to think. Think about it well.

So you swallowed the moment whole, tucked it somewhere deep in your chest like a secret you weren't ready to open yet, and followed Hinata inside. The noise was welcoming and terrible and perfect all at once.

Inside, the restaurant buzzed like a living thing.

Paper lanterns glowed softly overhead, their golden light spilling across polished wooden tables already crowded with food and laughter. Someone had strung up subtle Christmas decorations—pine sprigs, red ribbon, tiny bells that chimed whenever the door opened. Outside it was winter, sharp and cold, but in here, everything steamed and hummed and lived-in.

Plates arrived in waves—grilled meat, steaming rice, shared bowls that vanished as quickly as they appeared. Hungry athletes and proud families clinking glasses. Toast after toast rose into the air, voices loud and a little tipsy as they praised Hinata again and again.

Your head spun a little. In a good way, though. Not from the alcohol—you'd barely had any—but from sheer fullness of it. And from the amount of Japanese your brain was computing and interpreting in your head.

Hinata was everywhere, and he brought you everywhere with him. Laughing, bowing awkwardly at congratulations, waving his hands too much when people praised him, cheeks warm with beer and excitement. He looked lighter than ever, like something in him had finally clicked into place.

If he was disappointed about you sidestepping the conversation earlier, he didn't show it. Not even a crack. No hesitation, no shadow behind his smile. And that eased the tight coil of anxiety in your chest just a little.

For tonight, at least, he was simply happy.

Because of course he was enjoying himself. Hinata Shōyō didn't know how not to.

He introduced you proudly to everyone, hand resting at the small of your back whenever he pulled you into conversations, touch familiar and grounding.

"This is Y/n! From Brazil."

From Brazil. Not my friend. Not the girl I like.

Just enough distance to be safe. Just enough closeness to make your chest ache.

Everyone reacted the same way—eyes widening in recognition, faces lighting up like they'd finally put a voice to a name.

"Ah! From Brazil!" "So you're real." "You're gorgeous!" "How long are you staying?" "He talked so much about you!"

Every time, Hinata laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, ears turning red in a way that felt painfully familiar. You smiled through it—warm and a little dizzy—your heart caught somewhere between pride and a quiet, loving panic.

Dinner went on. Plates emptied. Drinks refilled.

Bokuto started recounting Hinata's every point in the match with wild arm movements. He knocked over a glass, then deflated instantly when the man beside him—his friend with glasses—scolded him under his breath. Then Bokuto leaned in, his friend whispered something in his ear, and then he lit up all over again, cheeks pink, grin soft and unguarded.

You filed that away absently.

Akaashi, you learned, worked as an editor for a shōnen manga magazine. He was soft spoken, but there was a steadiness to his voice that carried easily across the table.

"Hinata mentioned you know many languages."

You smiled, shaking your head. "He's being too nice. I just love learning any language I can get my hands on."

"Have you ever done translation work?" Akaashi asked. "We're currently looking for a localization specialist at my company."

You blinked, caught off guard, then shook your head again.

"I haven't. And I can't really work on a tourist visa, can I?"

Akaashi hummed thoughtfully, nodding as if turning over a puzzle piece.

"That can be arranged."

You laughed softly, unsure if he was joking. "Would you… would you really do that for me? A complete stranger?"

"Only if you plan on staying for a while," he said easily.

He threw a fond look at Hinata, who was chatting with Bokuto next to you.

"And we really hope you do."

Heat rushed to your cheeks. You looked down for a moment, then back up, offering a genuine smile—careful to avoid the knowing glint in Akaashi's eyes.

"Thank you, Akaashi-san."

"There's no need," he replied. "Call me when you've made up your mind. I'll hold the position until then."

His words settled over you quietly as you exchanged contact information.

Everyone seemed to expect you to stay in Japan. Everyone seemed to want you to. You liked that.

Somewhere in the middle of conversation, in the middle of celebration and happiness, and without any ceremony at all, Hinata's hand found yours beneath the table.

You startled a little. Not enough for anyone to notice—but enough that your breath hitched, sharp yet quiet.

His fingers slid between yours easily, like they'd done this a thousand times before, like it was muscle memory—the most natural thing in the world.

At least in Brazil, it was.

There, touch had been light. Casual. Sun-warmed and easy. It never felt like a statement—just affection, just comfort. Just friends who were a little too close, in a place where closeness came easily.

But here?

Here it felt denser. Like this small, hidden contact carried weight. Like every inch of closeness was… deliberate, on his part.

You suddenly became acutely aware of everything all at once: the people around the table, the way his thumb pressed gently against the side of your index finger and traced the skin there, slow and absent-minded. The way his knee bumped yours—and stayed. The fact that no one else could see it, and yet it felt like the loudest thing in the room.

Hinata didn't look at you right away. He kept listening to Bokuto talk, nodding along, smiling politely at the right moments. But his grip tightened just slightly—grounding.

Then, finally, he glanced down at you—just for a second—and his eyes softened instantly.

Not the bright, explosive joy he showed the rest of the table, but the kind of look that said 'I'm glad you're here' without using words.

The kind of look that said something else entirely, too.

Something you couldn't quite name. Or maybe didn't want to—because naming it would mean hoping, and hoping meant risking disappointment.

Your stomach flipped, and for the first time since you'd met him, you looked away first, suddenly fascinated by your drink.

He squeezed your hand once more, gently, and didn't let go.

You swore you heard him laugh softly.

"Too cute," he murmured against the side of his other hand.

You knocked your knee against his in flustered protest and tried to slip your hand free.

But he didn't let you.

The night rolled on like that—celebratory, loud, and impossibly warm.

And through it all, Hinata stayed exactly where he was supposed to be: laughing, shining, alive. But every now and then, beneath the table, his fingers would tighten around yours.

As if reminding himself. As if reminding you.

Of what, you didn't know.

The celebration dissolved slowly, like sugar at the bottom of a glass.

People filtered out in small, noisy groups—laughing too loud, swaying just a little. Bokuto declared he was not drunk (he absolutely was). Atsumu tried to start a chant that Meian shut down immediately, with the van keys already in hand and Dad Mode fully activated.

"Everyone who's riding with me—now," he ordered.

Groans followed, but compliance followed faster.

Hinata walked you outside with the others, and the night air was cooler now, clinging to your skin after the warmth of the restaurant. Neon still glowed above the street, but softer somehow, like the city was winding down with you.

You lingered near the curb as goodbyes unfolded around you.

Yachi— with flushed cheeks and questionable balance—hugged you tight and exchanged contact info with you, whispering something sweet and earnest you promised yourself you'd remember. Yamaguchi waved with a wide, drunken grin, slurring his farewells, and Tsukishima, sober as ever, gave you a brief look that felt suspiciously like approval before turning away and getting into the car with the other two.

One by one, engines started. Doors shut. Laughter faded.

And then it was just you and Hinata.

He rocked slightly on his heels, with his hands buried deep in his pockets and suddenly shy in a way that made your chest ache with recognition.

"Ah—um," he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. "So… where are you staying again?"

"At a hotel," you said, smiling. "Still."

He nodded, eyes flicking away, then back to you. There it was again—that look. Like he was standing at the edge of something and deciding whether to step forward.

"Do you—" He inhaled. "Do you wanna… come over?"

You thought of your suitcase, abandoned and lonely in a generic hotel room. Of the way he'd introduced you to everyone he loved, of how his hand had fit so easily in yours under the table. And before your courage could falter, you tilted your head and let a teasing smile curl your lips.

"Wow, Shōyō," you said lightly. "We just saw each other again and you already want me at your place? Japan really turned you into a player, huh?"

Hinata made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a choke.

"EH?! N—NO—THAT'S NOT—!" he rushed, face going nuclear red as his hands flew out of his pockets to cover it. "I didn't mean it like that! I just—I mean—I thought—you're tired—and the hotel is—and my place is close, I—I have space—!"

You laughed softly, stepping closer, saving him from his own spiraling.

"I'm kidding," you said gently. "Relax."

He froze. Because you were close now. Close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes. And your breath caught—because this time it was even clearer. Intent. Your teasing smile softened.

This… this was it, wasn't it?

Whatever had been hovering between you for years. Whatever had grown quietly in shared caipirinhas, training sessions, and long talks at the beach. Whatever had survived distance and silence and longing.

Your heart beat loud in your ears.

"…Okay," you said. His eyes widened.

"I'll stay with you," you added, quickly, before fear could steal it from you. "Just tonight."

Hinata blinked, momentarily stunned—even though he'd been the one to ask.

"R-really?"

You nodded.

"Really."

He smiled then, small and breathless.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Yeah. Just tonight."

Famous last words.

Hinata's apartment was small.

Not cramped—just… compact. Thoughtfully lived-in.

You slipped your shoes off at the door, instinctively lining them up before you even realized you were doing it, and stepped inside. The place smelled faintly of clean laundry and a lot like him. A narrow hallway opened into a combined living space and kitchen, everything neat in that slightly chaotic way that screamed busy person who tries his best.

By the window, perched on a low cabinet, stood a small Christmas tree—barely taller than your thigh. Simple. A little crooked. Decorated with mismatched ornaments: a few red and gold baubles, a string of warm fairy lights, and what looked suspiciously like a tiny volleyball charm hanging from one of the branches. No topper. No presents underneath. Just… there.

It felt very him.

A low table sat by the tv, in front of it, a small couch. Volleyball gear was stacked carefully in one corner—knee pads, shoes, a worn duffel bag with fraying straps you recognized from Brazil—while another corner held a bookshelf that surprised you. Manga spines. Training manuals. A couple of Portuguese textbooks, dog-eared and heavily annotated.

Your heart squeezed.

The kitchen was tidy but clearly underused: a rice cooker, a frying pan hanging from a hook, instant noodle cups stacked on the counter like a guilty secret. On the wall above the sink, taped slightly crooked, was a photo. A group picture—blurry, laughing, and familiar.

Brazil.

The beach. The sun. Nina. The general.

You.

"—I, um," Hinata said behind you, scratching the back of his neck, ears already pink. "It's not much. Sorry."

You turned, smiling softly. "Shōyō, this is cute. It's so you!"

That only made him blush harder.

You glanced toward the sleeping arrangements, and there it was—one futon, neatly folded in the corner.

You raised a brow, slow and deliberate.

"Only one futon?" you asked lightly.

Hinata combusted.

"I—I mean—! I was planning to sleep on the couch! It's fine! I usually do when Bokuto-san crashes here, and—!" He gestured wildly, then froze. "…You're teasing me again, aren't you?"

You laughed, warm and easy, and his shoulders finally dropped.

"Relax," you said.

You both settled on the couch eventually, the city lights spilling in through the window in soft amber stripes. The television played something mindless—variety show chatter fading into background noise as you both talked over it, filling in the blanks of months spent apart.

At some point, without really thinking about it, you shifted.

You sat between his legs with your back resting against his chest, his knees bracketing your hips. It felt natural. Your bodies remembered this shape from Brazil, even if your minds pretended not to.

Hinata inhaled as you settled, slow and deep, and then sighed.

"I missed you," he said quietly, voice warm against your hair.

Your chest ached most sweetly.

"Yeah," you murmured. "I missed you too."

Your phone buzzed. You frowned slightly and lifted it.

Akaashi Keiji: Spoke to my boss. The company can sponsor you for a work visa if you decide to accept. We'd need to start the process soon—let me know when you want to talk details.

You huffed a small laugh, looking at the time on your phone and wondering how and why he'd talk to his boss right after a celebration, and at these hour of the night.

"God. He's efficient."

Hinata peeked over your shoulder, half-reading the message.

"That's Akaashi-san for you. I think he works even when he sleeps."

You smiled, then grew quieter as you locked your phone.

Hinata hesitated for a second, then squeezed you a little harder without noticing.

"…Are you going to say yes?"

You leaned back a little more into him, eyes on the ceiling. "I don't know yet."

He nodded, though you felt the motion more than saw it.

"I have time," you added gently. "Tourist visa's ninety days. I want to think. Properly."

Silence settled—not uncomfortable, but heavy. The kind that pressed against your ribs and waited. Hinata's arms rested loosely at your sides, not holding you, not letting go either. His chin hovered just above your shoulder.

You didn't know it yet—but somewhere in that quiet, with the city breathing outside and your heartbeat syncing with his, Hinata Shōyō was already standing at the edge of a decision he'd been building toward for months.

Your weight against his chest, the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the warmth of your body fitting against his like it had always belonged there—it was almost enough to make him forget how fast his heart was beating. Almost.

"The next time I see her, I'll tell her."

He'd said it so casually in the locker room after practice, sweat-soaked and laughing, Sakusa shoving a bottle of water into his hands. Bokuto had been talking too loud, Atsumu had been annoying as usual, and Hinata—still riding the high of being back, of finally standing on this side of the net—had said it without thinking.

The room had gone dead silent.

Then—

"Ohhhhhh?" "Brazil girl?" "Knew it." "GO SHOYOU! BE BRAVE!"

He hadn't taken it back. He never would.

Brazil had been a slow, beautiful undoing.

He remembered you walking ahead of him on the beach, barefoot, dress fluttering in the wind, turning back just to smile at him—bright and teasing and so warm it made his chest ache. The sun had painted your skin gold, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

He'd wanted to reach for you then. To lace his fingers through yours. To pull you close and feel if your heart raced like his did.

It happened again and again.

You laughing, head tipped back. You calling his name across the sand. You brushing sunscreen onto his shoulders like it meant nothing. You curling into his side on the couch, soft and sleepy and there.

Every time, something in him screamed mine—not in ownership, not in entitlement, but in certainty. In recognition.

But he never crossed that line. Because he knew himself.

If he kissed you, he wouldn't stop there. If he held you, he'd want to hold you forever. If he loved you—he would do it loudly. Openly. With his whole chest and no shame.

And he was leaving.

He couldn't ask you to come with him, nor could he ask you to wait for him. He couldn't ask you to stretch yourself across an ocean just to meet him in the middle.

Long-distance wasn't just hard—it was cruel. And if it broke, it wouldn't break quietly. It would tear.

So he'd chosen silence.

He'd told himself it was kinder, that you deserved freedom, that loving you from afar was better than risking hurting you.

Even if it meant suffering anyway.

Now, sitting here in his apartment. In Japan. With you wrapped in his arms and a message glowing on your phone that could change everything—

He couldn't wait anymore.

If you stayed. If you chose Japan?

Then he wanted you. All of you. Not in pieces. Not in almosts.

He couldn't stand the thought of you belonging to a future that didn't include him. Couldn't imagine holding anyone else the way he held you now.

There was no one else in his heart.

Hinata lowered his chin, resting it gently on your shoulder, breath steadying as he made his decision.

No more guessing. No more assuming. No more silence.

If you stayed, he would tell you. And if he could do anything to convince you to stay, he would take his chance at it.

And if you would take him, he would love you the way he always had: completely.

He didn't move for a long moment.

He just breathed you in.

The quiet of his apartment hummed around you—the low whirr of his fridge, the distant city noise softened by the winter air and the snow that was starting to fall. The glow from the TV painted everything in muted blues and golds, flickering gently over your skin.

You were warm in his arms. To warm. Perfectly so.

The decision settled and solidified, unshakable in his chest. He whispered your name like it pained him, but in the way only a beautiful ache was leaving him.

And then carefully, he leaned in. Breathing you in, brushing his lips on the skin where your shoulder met your neck. They made their way up, softly caressing the skin and leaving the heat of the sun in their wake.

Then, barely there. A soft, lingering press just below your ear.

Your breath caught. You felt him smile faintly against you at the reaction.

Then, in a voice so quiet it felt like a secret meant only for your skin, he whispered:

"Would it be okay... If I asked you to stay?"

His lips lingered there after the question, unhurried, as if granting you time to think. As if offering himself completely and waiting to see if you would take him.

Your eyes softened.

Because you knew.

You weren't an idiot. You'd known, really. In the way he had looked at you all night—soft and awed and like there was something lingering at the edge of his tongue. In the way he had introduced you to everyone at the restaurant, and the reactions of his team. In the fact that you'd been offered a job by one of his most trusted people. In the way his hand hadn't once let go of yours under the table.

This was it.

This kiss.

This plead against your skin.

You slowly turned in his arms until you were facing him, and cupped his face in both hands.

He looked into your eyes like he had been waiting his entire life to be allowed to. Half-lidded, shining eyes. The windows to his soul were open and earnestand utterly unguarded. Lips parted, just lightly, breath shallow. Every thought was written plainly across his face without even trying to hide it.

You smiled. Gentle. Fond. Teasing, if just a little.

"Took you long enough, Shōyō."

His eyes watched your lips as you spoke, and before he could even attempt to respond, you leaned in to kiss him.

The kiss was soft, at first.

Your lips met like they were checking. As if asking permission to one another though you already had it. A careful press, warm and sweet and full of restraint that lasted exactly half a second before he exhaled your name into your mouth like a prayer.

Then it turned a little clumsy. Both of you figuring out the right timing to match eachother.

He was hungry, but unrushed, reverent. Like he was afraid it might be a dream and he didn't want to wake.

His hands came up to your waist, with fingers that trembled just slightly as they anchored themselves on the plush of your flesh. He kissed you deeper, pouring everything he'd held back into the way he fit himself into you.

You tasted home on his tongue.

Brazil sunsets and shared breaths and all the words he'd never said.

Your thumb brushed his cheek, your other hand travelling to the back of his neck, and then melted into you, pressing closer, a quiet helpless sound slipping from him before he even realized it. His forehead pressed against yours when you pulled back for air, breath warm and uneven.

He smiled softly. Shaky. Real.

"I love you."

Always the simplest truth in the world.

And outside, it was cold, so cold. The kind of cold that crept into bones, the city wrapped in silver and stillness as snow fell quietly against the windows.

But in here, in between his arms, in his hands and his tongue as his breath traced along your skin, in the feeling of his skin on yours as layers of clothing fell under tenbling hands, it was warm.

So warm.

Like melting under the sun in the most delicious way.

With Hinata sleeping beside you, breathing slow and even, with one arm heavy around your waist like it had always belonged there, you reached for your phone.

The screen lit the room softly. You opened your messages and typed:

: Thank you so much, Akaashi-san. Whenever you have time, I'd love to meet for coffee and talk about the job.

It was the easiest text you'd sent in your life.

Hinata shifted beside you, pulling you closer in his sleep and pressing his forehead lightly against your shoulder with a quiet hum—like he sensed it even then, even in the arms of Morpheus.

You smiled in the dark, slipping the phone away and sinking back into him, pressing a soft kiss on his forehead.

There was no ache pressing at your ribs. No doubt tugging at the edges of your thoughts, no weight of everything left unsaid in Brazil. Of late nights and unasked questions and longing that had nowhere to go. No weight of the years and miles you'd survived apart.

No coldness, even if snow fell outside.

Only the warmth of the sun.

Your sun.

You'd texted him something that looked more like a death threat than an invitation:

"Thursday. Closing time. Come alone."

He left you on read, which was either brave or the reaction of a deeply terrified individual.

(It was the latter)

But Suna was a problem for later.

The storm was a problem now.

You parked in front of your restaurant and watched the street drown. Pavement shimmered like black glass, reflecting blurry neon signs and the hazy glow of the streetlights fighting for their life through the downpour. All the other shops were closed—Kusakabe's pizza place, Ono's bakery, even the taiyaki stall that never closed, not even during Obon.

Only you and Miya—because of course, Miya—seemed to be as stubborn and food-obsessed as to open up on a day where god himself was forcing everyone to stay inside.

You threw your hood up and sprinted toward the iron curtain of your sushi place. Muttered curses as your soaked sleeves clung to your arms, the rain so heavy it felt like being slapped repeatedly with cold hands. Your fingers were numb as you tried to fit the key into the old lock you'd sworn you'd replace weeks ago.

"Stupid—"

You scraped the keyhole.

"—stupid lock—"

Rain blurred your vision, merging your frustration, your exhaustion, and the icy water dripping down your spine into the same bitter flavor.

And then the sky split open.

A violent crack of lightning flashed across the street, lighting up the empty storefronts in blinding white. Thunder followed immediately—loud enough to vibrate through your ribs.

The key snapped in your hand.

"Shit!"

You stared at the small broken piece between your fingers, then at the lock mocking you with its jagged little metal grin.

Yeah, you were regretting regretting this.

You pulled out your phone and dialed the locksmith's number with furious, wet fingers.

Frozen, dripping, defeated, and angry, phone to your ear as the locksmith's number rang and rang and rang. A sneeze tore out of you so hard it echoed down the empty street, immediately followed by a hissed curse you didn't have the energy to hold back. The storm swallowed the sound, thunder rolling over it like a warning.

And then—through the sheets of rain, through the icy wind biting your ears, through your own raging irritation—came the soft chime of a familiar door.

Your eyes narrowed on the wet pavement, but you didn't look up.

It took Osamu two slow, heavy seconds to speak.

"Yer gonna get sick out there. Come in."

A shiver ripped down your spine at his voice—not that you'd ever admit it. Your body reacted anyway—shoulders knotting, breath tightening, stomach twisting with unwelcome memory.

Because the last time you've heard that voice—

His hand on your face.

His breath on your lips.

His body pinning you against cold metal like he wanted to eat the argument right out of your mouth.

Your cheeks heated. Your knees actually weakened for a split second.

Absolutely not, Y/N.

You shoved the thought down—cementing your anger over it like slamming a lid shut. Intrusive thought, repressed desire, psychological self-sabotage—whatever it was, you were not letting it win.

So you sucked in a steadying breath through your nose and pretended your whole body wasn't hyper-aware of him. You stayed facing the drenched pavement, pulling out your phone like the locksmith might suddenly decide to answer on the fifteenth try.

"Y/N. Yer gonna get sick."

You hung up and faced him slowly, rain sliding down your cheeks like mock tears.

"Careful, Miya." Voice sweet with venom. "I'm gonna start thinking you actually care."

He flinched. And then, something in his face shifted—an expression like he'd been bracing for a punch and it still landed harder than he expected. He looked at you with that hurt wince for a few seconds, eyes flicking over your soaked frame with something that looked like guilt before he exhaled through his nose.

"Look. I'm sorry. About... everything. I really am."

You stared at him for a short, rain-filled moment. The storm boomed overhead, and your heart did something humiliating in your chest.

"I'll pretend I believe you," you said flatly.

His left eye twitched, and as usual, anger replaced his guilt in 0.2 seconds. He dragged a hand down his face, groaning like dealing with you was physically painful.

"Can ya just stop bein' so damn stubborn and come in? I'll make ya somethin' to eat and actually apologise. Just stop standin' under the fuckin' storm. Yer pissin' me off."

You barked out a humorless laugh.

"You're getting pissed off?" you said, lips curling. "You know, Miya. At some point in life, your back is gonna start hurting for carrying all that audacity around like it's no biggie."

He muttered something vicious under his breath, then louder:

"Yer gonna get sick, woman! Then Anko and Yuzu'll have to run the place on their own while ya try to die on principle!"

That one hit.

Hard.

Because you pictured them—Yuzu yelling, Anko panicking, both of them cursing your name—trying to run a lunch rush without you.

And you pictured Yuzu's earlier warning: Stay home today.

You sighed, long and miserable.

"Fine," you muttered, pushing wet hair out of your face and trudging toward his door. "But I'm not letting you feed me for free."

Osamu rolled his eyes, stepping aside to let you in, heat from his restaurant washing over your frozen skin.

"Wouldn't dare think that, sweetheart," he said.

You fought the urge to look back at him and scream, all because you weren't so sure you could hide the way your pulse jumped when you crossed his threshold and your arm brushed his chest.

You sat at a table near the entrance—just in case you needed to make a dramatic escape—and watched Osamu disappear back into his kitchen.

Onigiri Miya was a little bigger than your sushi restaurant, though it felt even bigger today, with the rain-softened light stretching across the polished floors.

You'd actually toured this building once, before settling for yours. Back then, it had been nothing but an echoing shell: bare walls, dusty beams. Too expensive, too cavernous, too impersonal. You'd chosen your smaller space instead because it felt manageable—yours, something you could fill with your own heartbeat.

Now, sitting here, you hated admitting—even in your mind—that Osamu had given this place an identity. His identity. Warm wood tones, muted navy accents, and shelves lined with handmade pottery. Calm. Steady. Grounded.

Like him, on the days he wasn't driving you insane.

The last time you'd been here, carrying a container full of umeboshi and a softening opinion of him, it was chaos. Now the place was still, almost reverent. Bossa nova murmured in the background, and the rain against the windows softened everything it touched. The world felt quieter inside these walls.

A hand towel flopped onto your head, and a bowl of chazuke appeared in front of you—delicate steam curling upward as soft as a whisper.

"Are you alone?" you asked, rubbing the towel over your soaked hair.

"Told everyone to stay home. Figured we wouldn't get many people today."

He sat across from you. Hesitated.

"…Also sorta hoped you'd show up."

Your hand froze.

When you looked up he wasn't looking at you, staring out the window instead, with an elbow braced on the table, and his chin resting loosely in his palm. His lashes were low, shadowing his eyes, and you could swear his mouth had fallen into the softest pout. His voice carried that rare note—unguarded. Honest. A little raw around the edges.

And you hated that a part of you wanted to believe him. You hated that a part of you thought he looked so handsome like this.

But the sting of the recent wound spoke louder, burning hot beneath your ribs. You couldn't afford to lean into the feeling. Not again.

His eyes widened a little when he looked back at you and found your eyes already on him, then softened again when he realised you weren't going to respond.

He nodded to the bowl in front of you with a weak jerk of his chin.

"Eat. Warm up."

You stared at the bowl. It smelled impossibly soft, like home after a hard day. But your stomach tightened instead of growling. You bit your cheek, resisting the urge to dive in.

"It ain't poisoned, y'know."

"I wouldn't put it past you," you said flatly.

He sighed.

"I thought we were... makin' progress."

"Yeah, well," you snapped, "that was before you made me look like an idiot. Before you encouraged me to confess to someone you knew was not single, just so you could—what? Watch me fall on my face? And yeah, before you sent your best friend to spy on me and seduce my sous-chef."

"Seduce...?" Osamu blinked like you'd thrown a fish at him. Then his brows knit together, his mouth tightening—not with anger, but with unmistakable shame.

"Look. I’m sorry. I really am. But don't be mad at Suna; it's not his fault. I asked him to check out yer place. Thats it. Him hangin' out with y'all after was entirely him. He genuinely likes ya."

"Still spied on me. Still probably reported to you. And I bet he also knew about Kita."

"I told him not to tell you."

That hurt more than you expected.

You scoffed, looking at him fully now—unwavering.

"You knew. And you let me—pushed me—to say something anyway. You knew he wouldn't return it. You let me embarrass myself."

His throat bobbed.

"I didn't mean to," he said quietly. "I was gonna tell ya. Swear to god, I was. I even tried that day when we cooked together, but Atsumu interrupted and—"

"You could've told me later. Texted me. That's no excuse."

"I know," he said, barely above a whisper. "I didn't think—I don't even know what I was thinking. I didn't want to humiliate you. I didn't want to hurt you. But it doesn't matter, does it? I still made ya feel like shit in the end."

He let out a shaky breath and dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard against his brow like he was holding himself together.

You stayed silent.

The weight of it all hung heavy in the warm, empty restaurant. The rain tapped against the windows, as if trying to keep the world still long enough for either of you to breathe.

Then you spoke.

"I'm sorry too."

He looked up from the table with a questioning look, and you bobbed your head from side to side, like weighing both your faults and his in your palms.

"About Atsumu..."

He nodded slightly, lips pressing into a thin line.

You sighed, letting your eyes fall shut. "I didn't—nothing happened. I assume they told you. I just... I thought if I could piss you off, it'd make me feel better. But it didn't. It just made me feel worse."

Osamu's mouth twitched—like he wanted to defuse the heaviness with a quip, something stupid like "Well, it worked." But he didn't reach for the joke. Didn't try to shield himself with humor.

You looked back down at the bowl of chazuke in front of you. Steam still rose from it, soft and inviting. You lifted it to your lips, and the first sip warmed your throat, your chest, your fingers wrapped around the bowl.

You didn't say thank you.

But you didn't stop eating either.

And then it hit you:

You'd never really tried Osamu's cooking before.

Not even once, back in culinary school. You'd sworn off it out of spite—if he wouldn't taste yours, you wouldn't touch his. Pride for pride, bite for bite.

You took another sip. Chewed. Swallowed.

"I usually put yuzu kosho on it," he murmured softly. "But I assumed you'd rather have the classic."

You tilted your head.

"A little yuzu kosho wouldn't've been that bad," you murmured, voice lighter. "It's good."

And it was. It was really fucking good.

The kind of good that was hard to admit out loud, especially to him. The kind of good that made your pride hiss between its teeth.

Across from you, Osamu froze. He was staring—but not in the way that annoyed you. Not like he was trying to be smug or push your buttons. He looked... undone. Like your words had peeled something open.

He watched the curve of your mouth as you brought the spoon back up, the way your tongue darted out to lick the excess liquid from your lips. The way your cheeks flushed at the warmth. The little sigh of satisfaction you let out without meaning to reached his ears and sent a chill down his spine.

Something about it—something about you, eating his food, liking it, praising it?

It knocked the wind out of him. Sent the blood rushing, his stomach dropped while his pants tightened.

He looked away sharply and slapped a hand over his mouth, trying to hide the heat creeping up his neck and ears, trying to hide the fact that his brain had gone straight to the gutter.

Of all the moments for his brain to short-circuit into something... not entirely pure—this one had to be it? You eating? Really?

It was pathetic, embarrassing, absolutely inappropriate—

—and completely unstoppable.

You finally looked up, spoon halfway to your mouth.

And his chair scraped suddenly against the floor, standing up—too fast—and practically bolting behind his counter. Running away from your eyes.

"Want a beer? Sake? Shochu?"

You blinked.

"It's not even 1 pm, Miya."

"Let's be honest, no one's comin'." His head appeared from behind his counter to smile at you, and you raised a brow at his pink-dusted cheeks. "It's 5 pm somewhere in the world, right?"

You sighed and glanced toward the window. The storm had only gotten worse, the sky a dim wash of silver. You checked your phone to see if the locksmith had answered any of your angry texts.

Then you sighed again.

"...I'll take some sake."

He returned with a warm tokkuri and two small sakazuki cups. The steam rising from the ceramic bottle matched the lingering warmth of the food between you. He poured himself a cup first, then gently slid the narrow-necked bottle toward you across the table.

"Thank you," you said quietly.

Somehow, this whole thing felt symbolic.

Like maybe this was the real truce.

Not forgiveness, not yet. But something just as rare.

And for the first time, all week, Osamu let himself hope.

The second round of sake hit a little harder than the first, and the third one hit like a truck. The sharp edges of your posture started to melt, words were coming easier, laughter was sitting looser in your throat. You weren't drunk—not yet at least—but the warmth had settled in deep, the kind of warmth that makes old memories feel less sharp and more like stories.

Remembering that professor who hated both of you equally because you always finished first, that classmate whose questions made you both roll your eyes behind her back. The techniques that broke your wrists or burned your forearms, the first restaurant jobs that nearly smothered you with the industry's toxicity.

The nights you spent cleaning until dawn. The mornings you wanted to quit.

You didn't hash it out in dialogue, didn't narrate your traumas at each other, you just… talked. Easy. Natural. Shared pieces without intending to.

And before you realized it, you were leaning forward.

Before he realized it, he was refilling your cup without thinking.

Before either of you noticed, the quiet between you had changed.

Comfortable. Cautious.

The sake had softened the edges of everything—the storm-muted lighting, the warm hum in your chest, even the way Osamu looked across the table: elbows loose, shoulders relaxed, cheeks flushed a pretty shade that wasn't entirely because of the alcohol.

"We're so childish, Miya," you said, a little slurred. "We let a stupid school rivalry last—how long? Five years?"

Osamu snorted.

"Honestly, Suna asked me 'bout it, and I couldn't answer," he said, turning his empty cup upside down and watching a small drop hit the table. "What even started this whole thing?"

You pursed your lips while you thought—soft, deliberate, a tiny movement you didn't register. But Osamu did.

His eyes dipped—not subtly—down to your mouth.

Shameless and hungry. He didn't mean to stare, but once he'd started, he couldn't look away.

The low light made your lips shine faintly, and something in his expression flickered—want twisting into something almost pained.

"Wasn't it that first-year exam?" you said finally.

He blinked out of whatever daydream he'd fallen into and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head with narrow eyes.

"Nope. It was the way ya were polite to everyone except me. Rude."

"Well, you were annoying."

"Ya didn't even know me!"

"You walked into knife skills ten minutes late and looked like you didn't care! That kinda pissed me off," you muttered, lifting the sake cup again. He stared at you like you'd sprouted a second head.

"Are ya kidding me? Like I didn't care? I was shitting my pants! The way that teacher looked at me when I walked in was—"

"Terrifying..." you both said at once.

That cracked you up. For a moment, it was just two ex-classmates bonding over mutual academic trauma.

"I know, right? That man had murder in his eyes."

"Volleyball saved my ass that day," he said, smirking. "If I hadn't had that goin' for me, I swear he would've slit my throat with one of those overpriced sashimi knives."

"That pissed me off too, by the way."

"What now?" he asked, head jerking up, brows knitting together. He looked genuinely baffled that you had more grievances stored away.

"That you got all that praise for your school. Inarizaki this, Inarizaki that. All the teachers always whooed and wowed at it."

Osamu narrowed his eyes at you. "Wow... Yer judgy."

You let out a groan. Burying your face in the crook of your elbow.

"I was, wasn't I? Such a snob, right? I judged you without even knowing you..."

"That you did."

"And then I was a bitch to you for the rest of culinary school."

"That you were."

You lifted your head to glare at him. You didn't like that he agreed so fast.

"But you were bitchy to me, too."

"Because ya started it! Ya were all sweet and helpful to everyone except me, and that pissed me off. Ya were also picky as hell—"

You nodded.

"—and fussy."

You nodded again.

"—and stupidly good at what you did."

That made you pause. Blink.

"Huh?"

Osamu shrugged like it was nothing, like it wasn't a confession years in the making. Like he wasn't avoiding your eyes and blushing like a teenager again.

"Yeah. I was jealous. Ya were way too good at everything. Every time I thought I had the upper hand, you'd come back the next week, suddenly a master at whatever it was."

"That's because I didn't sleep or eat until I got it right. Until I was satisfied. Which, back then... was never."

He grew quiet. A soft, vulnerable silence—like he was weighing whether to tell you something.

"Well, I wasn't either."

"It was hard to notice."

"Ya callin' me lazy again?"

"No—" you frowned, thinking back. "You just... You always looked so calm about everything. So smug. Like it all came easy. You have so much talent..."

I felt like I was falling behind. Was a thought you couldn't voice.

"Well, talent's nothin' without practice."

You nodded in agreement, still lost in thought.

"And I practiced every night. Cried over grades. Had nightmares about failin'. I just... didn't show it."

And you knew that was true. Atsumu told you that night at the izayaka, you cried about it when you got home. And knowing it now, from Osamu's own mouth, made something inside you twist all over again.

Because he had cared. He'd just been better at hiding it. And all this time, you'd resented him for something that wasn't even real.

"I... I was wrong about you, Miya. I'm sorry."

Osamu’s gaze softened, the corner of his mouth tugging upward—caught between a smile and something sad. The warmth of the sake made his eyes shine.

But you weren't done.

"Not only that... you'd get this look whenever you were cooking. So focused, and... like you were—" You paused, squinting as if the memory were a spice you could pinch between your fingers.

"Like you were in love. It was beautiful... And that pissed me off, for some reason."

The words hung in the air longer than they should have.

And then something in your chest twisted. You hadn't meant to say it like that. But it was true, wasn't it? That look he got—so content, so absorbed, so full of something you couldn't name back then—it bothered you.

Maybe because he had it, and you didn't. Maybe because you were jealous. But of what, exactly, you didn't want to know.

When you finally looked up, Osamu's eyes had gone wide, the tips of his ears flushing red like your words were a hand closing around his throat.

He blinked at you, mouth open like he wanted to say something—anything—and you suddenly felt like you had confessed to some hideous sin, and you had to go bury yourself in a hole and die.

You cleared your throat quickly, your voice rising an octave without your permission.

"I mean—not in love, I just—like—with the food—"

"I know what ya meant," Osamu said, a little too fast. He stood up suddenly, clumsy with embarrassment and booze. "Ya hungry?"

You leapt on the subject like a lifeline, standing up too.

"Starving."

You downed the last of your sake and followed him, eyes glued to the floor, praying the wooden boards would split open and swallow you whole. You did everything in your power not to look at him.

If you had, you might've noticed the way he was tugging at the collar of his shirt, ears still flushed and heart absolutely screaming in his chest at the way you'd describe him.

Beautiful, you'd said.

Had you meant that?

His mind replayed it in a loop, each echo worse than the last. He could still see that day in your kitchen—how close he'd come to losing whatever self-control he pretended to have. How he'd been seconds away from committing the ultimate act of betrayal to both his pride and your restaurant's sanitary certification. He'd seen the hunger hidden behind the hate. He'd seen you wanted him.

But this?

Calling him beautiful? Blushing and stuttering, acting all shy?

You?

This was something else entirely.

And he knew that if he thought about it for too long, the risk of ending up in another situation like that one again was way too plausible—pressed against you, losing himself, making a mistake he wouldn't walk back from.

Because he was tipsy, because you made him stupid, because he'd wanted you so badly and repressed himself for so long that he couldn't trust himself around you anymore.

You drinking his soup had given him a boner, for fucks sake. You staring at him like he was poison had made him grab your face and almost fuck you right there on your kitchen counter.

He just couldn't trust himself around you anymore.

"Where do you keep your tuna?" your voice cut through his spiral—thank God.

The clatter of ceramic and the low hum of the kitchen fan welcomed you both inside his kitchen. You set the empty sake cup by the sink and rolled up your sleeves, instinct guiding your hands before your brain even caught up.

"Bottom shelf. Black tray," he answered, voice a little rough.

"Is it fresh?" you asked, peering into the fridge like you owned the place.

Osamu scoffed behind you.

"Of course it's fresh."

You pulled it out with a satisfied little hum. "Perfect."

"Ya just makin' yourself at home, huh?" he teased, moving toward the rice pot.

"You let me behind the counter. Your mistake."

He smirked at that, but didn't argue. Knives clinked lightly as you plucked a yanagiba from his rack, weighing it in your hand.

Familiar. Comforting. Sharp as hell.

"Sure ya wanna be swingin' blades around after sake?" Osamu asked with a raised brow—half amused, half concerned.

You grinned. "I can do this cut with my eyes closed."

He watched you closely. Not just for safety.

Your posture, your grip, the way your hair fell forward as you leaned in, brow furrowed in concentration—it was all muscle memory to you. Art to him.

"Y'know…" you said softly, slicing through the tuna, "I was a little surprised when you helped me out that night."

"Hm?"

"With the Black Jackals. We cooked well together. I was half expecting us to be at each other's throats by minute five."

That earned you a soft chuckle.

"In a kitchen, teamwork's important."

"I didn't know you could do teamwork with me."

"Y/N," he said, voice dropping just a little. "I worked as a line cook for two years. Had to deal with people way more difficult and not half as competent as you."

You froze mid-slice.

Your heart did a traitorous little skip at his words, and you turned your head away under the pretense of grabbing a plate, trying to ignore the way your cheeks warmed.

Behind you, Osamu blinked. Your reaction was... cute. Very cute.

And very dangerous, because now he wanted to see that more. Wanted to cause that more. And again, he couldn't trust himself not to jump on you if you were even if just a little too cute in his presence.

So he took a slow breath and reached for a towel, trying to ground himself.

You deposited a small, perfectly cubed piece of tuna on the plate, and he recognized the sashimi technique you were using.

"Hey—ya sure yer okay to do kaku zukuri? Small cuts, sharp knife, sake-filled blood, y'know."

"I'm fine, Miya," you snorted, not even looking up from your work. "I can do it drunk, blindfolded, passed out, and one-handed."

"Cocky," he muttered, but he didn't stop you.

You tried to ignore the fact that this felt a little too similar to a certain dream you'd had. The fish cutting, his kitchen, Osamu's body close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body and breathe his scent in. You could only pray for your knife skills to be as precise as you thought they were, so you wouldn't cut your finger and turn that wet dream into a premonition.

"I remember you hated that cut back in school," he whispered after a while of watching you work.

Your hand paused, the blade hovering just above the soft tissue of the tuna. You turned to look at him, and an incredulous smile tugged at your lips.

"What do you mean?"

"I remember ya had to take a breather from knife skills class. Stepped outside, called someone on the phone. Then came back with yer makeup all messed up and this fire in yer eyes like ya were gonna burn down the entire place."

You laughed, a genuine, amused sound. Eyes glimmering with surprised nostalgia.

"I didn't remember that... but you're right." You shook your head softly, memories resurfacing. "I had a full-blown panic attack. Yuzu pulled me out of it. And after that day... I practiced this cut every single day until I could do it in my sleep."

You slid the last cut of the knife like a punctuation mark and rested the little fish cube on Osamu's empty plate, looking up at him with a proud smile.

"It's my best cut now. Melts on your mouth. Go on, try it."

Unfair, Osamu thought.

It was so fucking unfair.

The smile, the softness. The soft pride you showed, now like a kiss instead of a knife.

He'd seen you smirk, scowl, glare, bark orders at him—but never this. Not at him, at least. And now that you were giving him that smile, looking at him like that...

He couldn't breathe.

He didn't know what to do. With the realisation that there was probably nothing he'd wanted more. With the confirmation that the reason he'd been so mad at you all those years ago... was partly because he'd wanted you to be kind to him too. To smile at him like that, too.

His eyes dropped to your lips before he could stop himself.

Shit.

You tilted your head, smile faltering as you caught the look in his eyes—something pained, something hungry. Your smile faltered, your heartbeat spiking.

"Miya?"

His name on your voice like that made him flinch. Too soft. Too vulnerable. Too cute.

Too much.

He turned sharply and walked toward the back door.

"I'll go outside for a smoke."

"I— Wait, it's raining?" you said, confused.

"Can't smoke inside, can I?"

You hesitated, but followed after a second.

"Can I have one too?"

He cursed silently. Of course you would follow. But he was trying to run from temptation, not escort it out the back door and share a cigarette with it.

"Didn't know you smoked."

"I do when I drink."

The moment you stepped out, the alley greeted you with a rush of cold air and the soft, constant hum of rain hitting puddles just beyond the shelter. The overhang above was narrow, barely enough for one person, and both of you squeezed beneath it. Rain mist clung to the air, cool against your skin, and the faint scent of wet asphalt and rice from the kitchen blended into something oddly intimate.

He handed you a cigarette. His fingers grazed yours, and his hand jerked away like the skin burned from the contact.

Honestly, he felt like it had.

You lit the cigarette, eyes discreetly tracking him.

He was acting strange. Close one second, recoiling the next. Your mind flicked back—unhelpfully—to that moment in your kitchen, the way he'd pinned you, the heat of the argument, the faint tremor still echoing in your chest even now. His mood today, mixed with the fragile truce, the apology… it all made your thoughts swirl.

You didn't know—that he was barely holding to the edge of his self-control.

Trying not to look at you, not to touch you, trying to edge away, even if just a little. Trying to put space between you two.

But it was futile in the reduced space under the overhang. And it was killing him, the way his body wanted nothing more than to press itself against yours, the way his hands were burning to grab your waist, to cage you against the wall, to grab your throat and pull you in and cross that stupid line you'd drawn between you both.

He was dying to know how your mouth tasted. How your moans might sound. Where exactly he needed to touch to make you squirm.

He was fighting a losing battle against his own impulse. Because he wasn't like this. He wasn't an animal for god's sake. So why? Why?

You moved a little, trying to accommodate yourself in the narrow space, and your foot slipped on a wet tile.

"Shit—"

Osamu caught you immediately, one arm snapping around your waist with reflexive precision. His grip was firm, warm, almost possessive, holding you steady before you tilted.

You froze, but you didn't know why.

His hand stayed on your waist. Too firm to be casual. Too warm to ignore.

His breath hitched. So did yours.

The alley seemed to hold its breath with you—only the soft hiss of rain filling the silence outside the thin slice of shelter. No thunder. No wind. Just the two of you and a large, aching quiet.

You hadn't realized how close you were until your gaze lifted and met his. His eyes were locked on you—steady and heated, conflicted. The silver seemed to light from the dim yellow backlight of the restaurant; his expression was raw enough to punch the air from your lungs.

His hand tightened subtly at your waist, fingers pressing into your flesh just enough to draw a soft, involuntary gasp from you. And the moment the sound escaped, you saw his pupils blow wide.

You could feel your heart race in your chest loud enough that you were sure he could hear it too.

His gaze flickered downward—to your lips, then your throat, tracking the flutter beneath your skin, the way you unconsciously pressed your thighs together, the microscopic sway of your body tipping toward his.

You should've stepped back. Should've said something. Should've corrected the gravity pulling you toward him.

But then he lifted a hand.

Slow.

So slow.

Like he didn't trust himself. Like he was approaching something holy or dangerous or both.

His fingertips hovered near your cheek, trembling faintly—hovering like he didn't trust himself to touch, like touching you might break him open. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face and tucked it behind your ear. The touch was so soft. So barely there, it left a tingling feeling on your skin.

When he spoke, his voice was low—hoarse, and unsteady, barely louder than the rain.

"Do ya ever get tired... of pretendin' ya hate me?"

Your breath slipped.

"Miya—"

"'Cause... I am..."

The pad of his index finger brushed the skin of your cheekbone, like he couldn't bring himself to fully close the distance. His body was tense, the muscles of the arm around your waist pulled taught like he was afraid you'd slip away if he eased up even a little.

For all of his fantasies, for all of his feral need, he couldn't be anything but soft with you right now.

He wanted to taste you. He needed it. There wasn't another thought in his mind but that.

Your throat felt tight, but you couldn't look away. He was leaning in—inch by agonizing inch. Not even looking into your eyes anymore, gaze fixed solely on your lips.

"M-miya. What are you—"

"Just... just once. Just one."

The way he said it.

Like it hurt. Like it cost him.

Your cigarette had died on the wet tiles long ago. Your body tilted up into his warmth, lips parting, heart aching in a way you didn't understand.

His scent—rice broth, clean smoke, rain—filled your senses, pulling you in. Every part of him drew you closer, like a tide too strong to fight.

A voice inside screamed at you to stop—

You shouldn't be doing this.

—but your body leaned closer anyway.

As slow as a simmer, you moved toward each other.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

Breaths mingled. Lips parted.

Not a kiss. Not yet.

Just the threat. The promise of it.

And then—

CRASH.

A hollow metallic clatter slammed through the alley, sharp enough to split the moment in half.

You and Osamu jolted apart so fast it would've been almost comical—if your heart wasn't still racing from the promise of a kiss that now felt like a live wire snapping and swinging in the space between you.

Osamu's hand dropped from your waist. His jaw flexed hard—one muscle jumping beneath his cheek. Neither of you spoke. The narrow overhang suddenly felt too cold. Too small. Too loud with everything that hadn't happened.

"What the fuck was that?" you whispered, breath unsteady.

"Dunno—shit—" Osamu muttered, already half turned toward the noise by the trash bins, voice tight and posture sharper than before.

Then you both heard it.

Mprh.

…Meehh!

Not a cry—more like tiny, furious, offended little grumbles. Like something small was picking a fight with the universe.

"Is that a cat?" you asked.

Osamu frowned into the shadows.

"Sounds like one. And it's pissed."

Another squeaky, warbling complaint echoed from behind a loose pile of metal scraps and broken cardboard.

You stepped out from under the overhang into the rain, crouching down. Cold drops soaked instantly through your clothes, but you barely noticed.

There—deep in the shadows—two round, glassy eyes glared at you from beneath a bent shelf and a flap of damp cardboard. A tiny puff of white fur trembled, then hissed. Loudly. Impressively so.

"Oh my god," you breathed. "It's just a baby."

Osamu crouched beside you with a sigh so weary you almost laughed. "Yeah, well. It wants us fuckin' dead."

The kitten hissed again, spitting with all the ferocity of a demon the size of a tuna can.

He paused. "Alright. That's it."

You watched him reach in, fearless. The kitten clawed at him with all three hairs it possessed.

Osamu narrowed his eyes at it. It swiped again.

He clicked his tongue once—irritated, betrayed, and still very much Osamu—and then simply reached forward and grabbed it by the scruff, lifting it up.

The kitten dangled in the air, tiny legs spread like a startled starfish, still hissing with the conviction of a creature who believed itself six hundred pounds.

You nearly choked laughing. Osamu, however, looked furious.

Mostly because a cat—some little rain-soaked gremlin—had interrupted his kiss. The moment he'd been yearning for so long. He stared at the creature like it had personally wronged him.

In a way, it had.

You felt the lingering heat of the almost-kiss flare inside you—unwelcome, unexplored—and instantly latched onto the distraction.

"Oh my god, Miya, give him here—he's freezing!"

You stood up quickly—too quickly—focusing so intensely on the kitten that your mind blocked out the moment from fifteen seconds ago.

Pretending nothing had happened.

Ignoring all of it. Like it meant nothing.

Osamu's expression flickered—barely. But there was a small, tight pull in his eyebrows. A faint drop in his shoulders.

You were avoiding it.

And it hurt him. Just a little. At least enough to feel like a bruise.

"No," he said stiffly, still holding the kitten like a misbehaving produce item. "Yer not takin' this thing inside."

"I'm not leaving it here in the rain!"

"We're not bringin' an animal into my kitchen. Forget it."

"Miya, look at him! He's all bones!"

"I said no."

"Osamu, please?"

He froze.

You never called him by his name. You never said please.

Not like that.

"…fuck," he muttered, defeated. "Fine. But it's not touchin' the counters. Or the floors. Or the air."

You grinned, victorious, which only made him groan as you ushered him toward the back door.

Inside the restaurant, the warmth hit instantly, cozy and clean and humming with the smell of fish, toasted rice, and sterilized steel.

Osamu held the kitten away from his body like it might explode.

"I'll have to sanitize this place a thousand times for fuck's sake," he muttered.

You grabbed a clean towel from the counter and wrapped the kitten up despite Osamu's protests.

"Stop encouragin' it!" he snapped when it burrowed into the warmth.

"He's hungry! Look at him!"

"Do NOT—"

But you were already reaching for the plate. His plate.

"DON'T—"

You grabbed the sashimi cube you'd put on his plate.

"Woman, that's expensive!"

"He deserves to live!"

"It deserves dry cat food, not premium grade tuna sliced by hand with skill and craft and—HEY!"

You fed the kitten the perfect red cube.

Osamu looked personally betrayed. The kitten ate quickly, purred loudly.

"…little shit," Osamu muttered, but far too softly to be convincing.

Under the kitchen lights, you finally saw the kitten clearly—white fur with a single bright orange stripe down its back.

"Oh my god," you laughed. "He looks like a nigiri."

Osamu paused.

Looked at the kitten, then at you.

"…fuck, he does."

The rest of the night blurred pleasantly—warm food, the soft clink of glasses, quiet laughter, and the kitten (Nigiri) alternating between purring at you and attacking Osamu's thumb like it owed him money.

For a moment, it almost felt domestic. Easy.

Like the two of you had slipped into a rhythm you didn't dare acknowledge.

But every time Osamu's eyes lingered on you a little too long…

every time his hand brushed yours by accident…

every time the kitten crawled into your lap and you smiled softer than you meant to…

…the ghost of the almost-kiss hovered in the room like steam over a simmering pot.

Unspoken. Ignored.

You both pretended it didn't happen.

But Osamu could still taste the bitterness of it sitting heavy and sharp on his tongue.

A sad smile made its way on his lips when the kitty finally purred at him.

"Little fucker..."

Your eyes softened as you watched him.

Because you felt it too.

But it was easier to ignore than to feel so much.

Next chapter↪

"Ya took'er home."

"Sure did."

"In yer car."

"That's indeed how cars work, yeah."

"At night."

"Famously when dates happen."

"Did ya do anythin'?"

Atsumu slapped a hand to his chest, scandalized.

"Of course not! I was there t'assess her, really. Although when I saw her in that dress, I did kinda wonder—"

Osamu lunged.

Atsumu yelped and dodged behind the couch, laughing as Osamu tried to grab him by the collar.

"I TOLD YA I DIDN'T DO SHIT!" Atsumu cackled, scrambling out of reach.

"SHUT YER TRAP!"

"NO—IT'S BASIC, BROTHER. 'IF SHE SAID NO, YA GOTTA GO!' IT RHYMES SO IT'S TRUE!"

"Who knows what ya did on the way!" Osamu barked. "With yer face! Yer stupid—flirty—idiot face!"

"It's a very good face, thank you—"

Suna stepped inside behind them, closing the door quietly, with slumped shoulders and his hood still up like a kicked puppy.

Osamu finally gave up on trying to strangle Atsumu over the couch and whirled toward Suna instead, grabbing him by the arm.

"Sunarin! You were supposed t'make sure nothin' happened! Not let this airhead blow yer cover off like that!"

Suna stared at him with dead fish eyes.

"…She called me a traitor."

Atsumu snorted, finally letting his head pop up from behind the couch but still behind cover in case his twin changed his mind about murder.

"Well. Ya kinda are."

"She said I'm not a girlie anymore."

Atsumu winced. "Okay, that part actually hurts,"

Osamu rounded on Atsumu, scowling. He ducked again behind his hiding spot, but Osamu didn't move.

"Stop doin' that."

"What?"

"The one-liners. It's cringe."

"God forbid a guy's funny like that," Atsumu huffed. "Y'see this is why ya can't get Y/N. Girls love the one-liners."

Before Osamu could vault the couch for round two, Suna let out a long, exhausted exhale and collapsed face-first onto the cushions, limbs spread like a chalk outline.

"Someone kill me," he muttered into the fabric like he was mourning his entire existence.

Osamu released Suna like he was suddenly too heavy to hold, dragging both hands through his hair before pacing again.

"Okay. Okay. Just—tell me. How was she?"

Atsumu and Suna exchanged a look.

Osamu froze. "What does that face mean? Why are ya makin' that face?"

Atsumu raised his hands. "First of all—she looked insane. Like. Crazy good. Like, holy hell good. Like—"

"I know," Osamu blurted immediately, voice low and pained.

Both of them stopped and stared. Osamu scratched his neck, looking anywhere except their faces as if he had been suddenly caught in an embarrassing secret.

"I sorta... Saw ya two. When ya went t'pick her up..." The silence made him uneasy, and his ears reddened, so he shook his head and went back to his line of thought. "I mean how did she look when she found out about Suna."

The mentioned one groaned and flopped his head back onto the couch, sliding even lower like gravity was trying to erase him from the earth. Osamu turned to Atsumu, who shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah... She looked pissed. And then..."

Osamu's expression softened.

"…She was sad, wasn't she?"

Atsumu nodded, his usual grin fading. "Yeah. Real sad. But not at you, I think. At herself. At everything. We talked a bit, and she had this look…" He exhaled, shaking his head. "Man, when she stopped smilin'? It felt weird. Wrong. She's got a real nice smile, y'know? Watching it disappear sucked."

Osamu swallowed hard. He knew exactly what Atsumu meant.

He'd noticed that smile, too. He felt weirdly jealous of whoever you showed it to, felt the honestly embarrassing need to be the one who made it bloom, and thought about it way too much for a guy who kept insisting he didn't care.

Suna, now curled up at the end of the couch like a dying Victorian orphan, rested his chin on his knees.

"She looked… tired," he murmured.

Osamu closed his eyes, shoulders dropping. Like someone had just reached inside and squeezed his heart.

Because this was his fault.

He'd done this.

He'd made you feel like that.

Atsumu hopped over the back of the couch and clapped a hand onto Osamu's back, surprisingly gentle. "Ya better fix it, lover boy."

Osamu sat down between them and settled his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.

"…I'm gonna," he whispered. "I swear I'm gonna."

Silence settled over the three of them—slow, heavy, thick as miso left to cool. All three sat on Oamu's and Suna's couch, all three somewhat tangled in this mess in different ways.

The apartment, usually warm from the lingering smell of broth and cooked rice, felt strangely hollow tonight. A draft slipped in through the balcony window where Osamu had forgotten to lock it earlier, letting in a thin thread of cold air that brushed across his arms and raised a line of goosebumps.

Somewhere in the kitchen, the fridge hummed softly. Traffic murmured below the building. The ceiling light buzzed faintly, flickering every so often like it, too, was exhausted.

Atsumu cracked his knuckles, looking around like he couldn't stand the weight pressing down on all of them.

"So…" he finally said, rocking back and forth, unsure and fidgety, "you like her, don't ya?"

Osamu let out a breath that shook all the way through him.

He buried his face in his hands, voice muffled.

"Yeah… I really do."

Atsumu whistled, long and low, nodding and looking up into the ceiling like he'd just confirmed a rumor he'd been waiting years to hear.

"So... Y'all wanna watch some volleyball?"

Suna blinked at him, baffled.

But Osamu just gave a small, defeated laugh—barely a sound, more like an exhale that hurt.

"Heh… sure… why not."

Suna pushed himself up, legs heavy, shuffled to the fridge for three beers without anyone asking, and handed them out without looking anyone in the eye. Atsumu turned the TV to the sports channel, plopping down with the remote, the blue glow washing over the room and softening the tension just enough to breathe.

None of them mentioned the slight tremble in Osamu's hands when he opened the bottle.

None of them mentioned how quietly he drank that first sip, like he was holding himself together with it.

None of them mentioned how glassy his eyes looked in the flickering light from the screen.

They didn't need to.

The apartment was dark when you stepped inside—too dark and too still.

You didn't even bother turning on the lights. You just kicked your heels off by the genkan as Atsumu's jacket slid halfway down your arms, and stood still in your living room for a moment, hands shaking just enough for you to notice.

You felt wrung out.

Hollow in the way only a long day and too many tangled thoughts could make you.

You dropped the rest of your things onto the couch—keys clinking against the leather, your purse collapsing into the cushions—and lowered yourself to the floor instead. With your back against the couch and your knees pulled to your chest, your living room felt unfamiliar. It smelled faintly of last night's candles, a soft vanilla-sandalwood lingering in the air and mixing with the clean scent of the shampoo you'd used that morning. All familiar smells, and even with that, all of it felt like it belonged to someone else.

You felt different from the person who lived here.

Like you were borrowing a body. A life… not only a dress.

It wasn't even that you were angry anymore—at least not in the way you'd expected to be.

You felt tired.

Tired in your bones.

Tired in your heart.

Tired in that quiet, sinking way that made the world feel two sizes too big.

You rested your forehead against your knees, letting the silence settle around you like fog—thick, heavy, and borderline unbreathable. The faint cold draft seeping through the balcony door brushed your arms, making your skin prickle. But you didn't move to close it.

Because now, it was starting to really hit. All of it. Not all at once, but in soft, sinking waves. Kita, Suna, the date with Atsumu, and your forever repressed feelings about Miya. Every wave hit you again and again, making you unable to pull your head out of the water.

Your throat tightened, and before you could stop it, a single tear slid warm down your cheek, cooling almost instantly in the breeze.

It wasn't heartbreak, exactly.

It was humiliation.

And grief.

And something warm and fragile that hurt worse than either.

You pressed your palms into your eyes, swallowing around the knot in your throat.

Everything you'd hated about Osamu—everything you'd sharpened into a weapon, clung to so tightly you'd bled from it—had been a shadow. A guess. A story you told yourself because it was easier than admitting the truth.

Because the truth required softness, and softness felt like walking around without skin, and you just didn't know how to do that. Didn't know how to stop bracing, how to stop mistaking tension for safety.

You'd told yourself for years that he didn't deserve your respect—only to learn he'd been earning it the whole time.

You told yourself he didn't try—only to learn he'd been trying so hard it made his twin concerned for him.

You told yourself you hated him—only to realize that somewhere between the last couple of months, somewhere in the laughter, the arguments, the stolen glances…

You'd started loving him instead.

And that hurt most of all.

Because he had betrayed you.

Even if he didn't mean to.

Even if you somewhat understood why.

Even if the betrayal was small compared to the mess inside your own head.

He'd still hurt you.

But you still loved him.

And that made you feel ridiculous. Like you were betraying yourself.

You curled into yourself tighter, breathing shakily through the sting behind your eyes. The world didn't make sense anymore—not the rivalry, not the hate, not the distance you'd tried to keep between you. All of it felt flimsy now. Flimsy and childish. But admitting that meant accepting how deeply you'd misjudged him… and how deeply you'd misjudged yourself.

"God..." you whispered, voice fragile and small. "I wish you hadn't tried so hard to make me hate you..."

You stayed like that for a long, still moment, letting the truth settle. Your thoughts spun, colliding with each other, fighting for space in your mind so loudly that even the bees gave them room to argue.

Anko's words managed to make it through the fog of feelings, her soft voice that morning, before the umeboshi, before the restaurant, before all of this escaped from your hands.

"You're allowed to like people you don't like."

No, you weren't. Not like this.

Not after betrayal, not after allowing yourself to soften, for your walls to start crumbling, for your pride to melt away just to be stabbed in return.

Your pride was your armor. A terrible one, yes—cracked in all the wrong places, heavy enough to bruise you when you carried it too long—but it was still armor. At least it had structure. At least it didn't require trust. At least it kept your bees contained. Kept the world at a manageable boil instead of letting it flood your mouth.

And at some point during the night, when your rage solidified once more, when your head throbbed from smoking too much and Kobe's cold city air dried the last traces of tears on your cheeks—the breeze brushing you with a soft yet indifferent caress—

You realized you were in way deeper shit than you'd ever let yourself believe.

"Oi, did you sleep last night?" Yuzu asked, eyeing the mess on the living room table—the heaps of papers, the open laptop, the pen marks smudged from your fingers.

You were slumped over it, full shrimp-pose on your laptop, surrounded by invoices, supplier contracts, and three empty cups of cold coffee. The dress she'd lend you for the date still clung to you, wrinkled at the waist where you'd been bent for hours.

"Breakfast's on the counter."

"Not an answer to my question…" she muttered, giving you a quick look before opening the fridge. She filled a glass with water, watching you over the rim.

You blinked fast as you typed. "Did you file the inventory for the bar?"

The question was born from the part of your brain that was already drowning in tasks, lists, and everything you'd avoided thinking about last night. A tremor of irritation—too sharp, too easy—sparked under your skin.

Yuzu froze mid-sip, furrowing her eyebrows before setting the glass down and sliding into the chair across from you.

"How was your date?" she asked, tone light, but not light enough to avoid the landmine she'd just stepped on.

Your shoulders stiffened. Her eyes caught the movement immediately, and a teasing smile crept across her lips.

"Not good, huh? Considering you came back home instead of waking up in a handsome volleyball player's bed… got cold feet? Couldn't do it?"

Your head snapped up.

"The inventory for the bar," you repeated, the words scraping out way rougher than you meant. "I need to send it to the provider."

Her smile vanished, and her eyes narrowed.

"I left it at the restaurant," she said flatly. "And I'm missin' a few things."

"I asked for it last week, Yuzu." Your jaw tightened, and your pulse flickered hot in your neck.

You could feel your heartbeat in your fingertips.

Too fast.

Too shallow.

Too loud for this early.

"I wish you'd take your job more seriously."

The moment the words left your mouth, regret coiled in your throat like smoke.

Yuzu went still—that dangerous, controlled kind of stillness. The kind that said I'm not reacting emotionally. I'm deciding how to respond.

"Look," she said, flattening her palms against the table with deliberate calm. "I love you. But I'm not lettin' you be a bitch t'me just 'cause you couldn't get fucked last night."

"Oh, I'm a bitch?" you snapped.

"Yeah, you're bein' a bitch right now."

"No. I'm being a boss." The stress sharpened your words like a knife on a whetstone. Everything inside you was vibrating with sleepless adrenaline, leftover hurt, and a fragile anger that had nowhere to go. "Not my fault you think just because we're friends, I won't put you in your place from time to time."

Yuzu's eyebrows shot up into her bangs.

She studied you with the kind of look only a psychologist could give—clinical, a little disappointed, and completely un-intimidated.

She counted silently in her head—you knew her, you knew that was exactly what she was doing—waiting to see if you'd catch yourself.

You didn't.

"Okay. Fuck you." She shoved her chair back with a harsh scrape. "Lemme know when yer done."

She stomped toward the kitchen—loud on purpose—and opened the container of breakfast you'd made her with too much force. The plastic clicked sharply.

Your chest tightened. The adrenaline drained too fast, leaving you shaky.

"Yuzu…" came out as an almost whisper.

"Nope." She didn't even glance at you, talking around a mouthful of food. "Not talkin' to you right now. I'm pissed."

She walked past you again, chewing with pointed aggression.

"You can apologize later when ya actually feel it."

She paused at the doorway, swallowed, and threw the final blow:

"Ya burned breakfast, by the way."

Only then did you smell it—a broth that lacked miso paste, tamagoyaki with rubbery edges, and the faint bitter edge of fish left too long in the pan.

A perfect metaphor for the morning. And for you.

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands just as Yuzu's bedroom door slammed shut.

You looked at the time and noticed you were running late. You still needed to shower and at least have a small bite, because the breakfast you'd cooked wasn't for you, but for Yuzu.

So you shot a quick text to Anko, asking her to open up shop, and stood up. Your spine crackled, and your muscles pulled tight like someone had cinched invisible strings under your skin. Even your heartbeat felt grainy, pulsing too hard in your temples.

The shower didn't help much.

You stood under the stream with your forehead against the tile until the water went lukewarm, letting it hit your face, your shoulders, the back of your neck—anything to rinse off the night before. But both exhaustion and the wound Miya had picked open clung stubbornly to your bones, heavy and sour like over-steeped tea.

By the time you got dressed for work, your eyes burned, your head throbbed with every movement, and the clothes you'd put on still felt like someone else's skin.

Yuzu didn't say anything when you walked into the kitchen. She was finishing a piece of toast she'd made for herself, standing by the counter with her shoulders squared. She didn't look at you, either.

You almost apologized.

Almost.

But the words stuck somewhere between your pride and your frayed patience, and instead you grabbed your keys and simply said, "Let's go."

The car ride was… bad.

The silence was thick, the kind that filled up the small space and made the air feel stale. Yuzu scrolled on her phone with a tight jaw and a bouncing knee. You kept your eyes pinned to the road, knuckles white around the wheel, and changed the radio station every ten seconds as if one single song might magically reset your brain.

It didn't.

None of them did.

And the clicking of buttons just made everything feel more cramped.

Every red light made your irritation spike; every breath she exhaled too loudly felt like a jab, even though you knew damn well she was just breathing.

You didn't even know why you couldn't just apologize. You knew you were wrong. You knew you'd snapped because you were tired, stressed, and strung out on emotion. Nothing you'd said was something you actually felt. And looking back at it, you'd wanted to stop the entire time. Your own mind kept screaming "Stop." screaming "You don't think that." crying out "You're hurting her."

But something inside you was brittle and stubborn, and it held the apology hostage. Some pathetic little defense mechanism you hated but couldn't shake, not when you were this drained and raw.

When you finally parked behind the restaurant, Yuzu got out before you could unbuckle, slamming the door just loud enough to make a point.

Inside, the kitchen was already warm and ready for the day, the low hum of refrigerators filling the air and the faint scent of yesterday's broth lingering like a ghost. Anko stood near the prep counter, tying her apron with her usual morning brightness.

"Good morning!" she chirped—then immediately froze, eyes bouncing between you and Yuzu. "Oh."

Her face shifted into the expression of a child who'd just walked into their parents mid-argument. "Uhh… everything okay?"

"Fine," you said too quickly.

"Yep," Yuzu added, matching your tone with equal fake pleasantness as she dropped her bag on the shelf a little too forcefully.

Anko blinked slowly. She believed none of that. Not one syllable.

"...Okay."

Yuzu grabbed a crate of vegetables and set it on the counter harder than she needed to, the thud echoing across the stainless steel. You walked past her to the espresso machine. Even flipping the switch felt aggressive; the machine hissed like it disapproved of you.

"Careful," you muttered. "You'll bruise the produce."

Yuzu didn't even turn around.

"Better that than bruisin' that pride of yours again," she snapped, words clipped and precise. "Ya could stab me with a knife instead of just words."

You inhaled sharply. "I wasn't trying to—"

"Yeah?" she shot back. "Didn't sound like it."

Anko paused mid–apron tying, hands frozen in a half-knot like she was afraid to move and trigger a landmine. The kitchen light buzzed faintly. The fridges hummed louder. The simmering tension was so thick it felt like the air had weight.

Yuzu stared at a stain on the sink, muttering more to herself than to you:

"I'm takin' five. I need a smoke."

You scoffed before your brain could stop your mouth. "Oh great, yeah. Go do nothing for five minutes, that'll help with morning prep."

Yuzu whipped around, eyes blazing. There was no childish anger there—this was the look of a woman who had a degree in human behavior and wasn't afraid to use it.

"You know what?" she said slowly, voice dropping into a dangerous calm. "Keep talkin'. See what happens."

You glared back, exhaustion twisting everything sharper and meaner than you intended.

"I'm just saying if you actually did the inventory—"

"Oh my god," she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose before grabbing her lighter. "I'm goin' outside before I say somethin' I regret."

She stormed out the back door, the metal frame rattling behind her. The silence that followed was brutal.

Anko stared at the door, then at you. Then at the door again. Her eyes slowly widened, like she was mentally debating which parent she was safer with.

"…I'm gonna go check on her," she whispered, touching your shoulder once—gentle and a little unsure—before quickly slipping outside after Yuzu.

The back door clicked shut.

And you were left alone with the espresso machine hissing, your pulse thudding in your ears, and the bitter realization spreading through your chest like cold ink:

You were being a damn mess today.

And Yuzu wasn't wrong to be pissed.

You tried to busy yourself with prepping, tying your hair back and storming into your kitchen, grabbing containers and ingredients like a mad scientist halfway through a breakdown. Your hands were shaking—not enough sleep, not enough patience, not enough anything—and every chop of the knife was a little too sharp, a little too angry.

Then the kitchen door creaked open.

Cold morning air slipped in, brushing your ankles.

And with it came a scent you recognized before your brain even caught up—clean rice, faint cedar, and something warm you refused to admit you liked inhaling that made your entire spine lock.

Osamu stepped inside. Sleeves pushed to his elbows, expression set in that calm, infuriating way that made the way he was actually wound pretty tight beneath it go unnoticed for you.

"Mornin'," he said, scanning the room—then landing on you.

Your jaw clenched so hard it clicked.

"What do you want?"

He lifted his hands slightly, palms open—a peace offering.

"You need help preppin' anything?" he asked, tone… gentle. Careful. Too careful.

It made your rage spike like oil in a pan.

"Not from you." Your knife hit the board again—hard. "I'm good."

Osamu went still, and something in his expression flickered.

A tiny flash of memory.

You, in chef whites. Him, in chef whites. Standing way too close over a simmering pot, arguing about broth textures until a professor had to separate you.

Just like culinary school—your hostility was snapping through the air like static. He took a slow breath, mentally preparing himself for an apology.

"Hey... About last night—"

"What last night?"

Apology that died instantly.

Cold. Clean. As precise as your words.

His jaw tightened, starting to forget real fast the reason why he was there in the first place.

"Y/N."

You chopped the scallions with fast, angry precision. "Don't know what you're talking about, Miya."

He stepped closer, and the air shifted around him. "Yer bein' childish."

"And you're breathing too close to my mise en place. Back up."

You nudged the tray of chopped ingredients toward him—not gently, almost daring him.

He stared at the tray. Then at you.

Then he picked up a garlic clove and rolled it between two fingers, expression curling into something sharp and smug.

"This is chopped like shit."

Your head snapped up.

"My knife skills are perfect."

"Not today they ain't."

You scoffed. "Right, I forgot you're an expert on knife skills. Being the teacher's pet and all."

"Do ya ever take responsibility for anything?"

Your eyes widened ever so slightly, and you turned around to fully face him.

'Take responsibility'? Coming from him? Oh, there was no way Miya Osamu had this much fucking audacity.

"Oh, I'm responsible," you seethed, stepping into his space. "For a whole restaurant, in fact. Which I run perfectly fucking fine, even counting sabotage from your freak-show of an onigiri shop—if you can even call it that."

"Freak-show?" Osamu laughed, low and offended. His pupils blew wide—anger, adrenaline, something else. "Sorry not everyone wants bland-ass food like yours."

"Says the one experimenting with food like he's trying to fucking poison people."

He moved way too fast.

Your back hit the prep table, cold stainless steel biting into your hips.

Osamu leaned in, bracing one hand beside your head, the other gripping the edge of the table next to you.

His chest nearly touched yours.

Your heart stuttered—then sprinted like it wanted out of your body. Something hot curled low in your stomach, snapping tight in a way that made your breath catch.

He dipped his head, voice low and furious and close enough for his breath to ghost your cheek:

"Ya done?"

His tone wasn't gentle.

Not even close.

It was a dare.

You swallowed—barely, then glared up at him, trying to manage some composure, but your pulse thudded traitorously in your throat, your ears, everywhere.

"Barely warming up."

His eyelids flickered—something deeper, darker, and absolutely feral behind wide pupils. His hands tightened on the counter beside your hips, knuckles whitening, tendons pulling tight beneath skin. And you had to hold on to your sanity to not stare at the veins of his forearms as the muscles flexed hard enough to strain fabric.

"If it wasn't for me," he bit out, leaning in closer, "yer restaurant wouldn't have more than the usual grandma and a few poor bastards who come'ere and leave hungry and unsatisfied. Where's that thank-you for helpin' ya out with the Jackals?"

"I'd rather die than thank you and your lame-ass cooking."

His eyes dropped to your mouth at "die," flicked back up, and narrowed to slits.

"Yer insufferable."

"You're unchewable."

"Yer—"

"—none of your damn business," you snapped, chest brushing his as you pushed up on your toes. "Or am I? 'Cause you seem real interested in what I do with my life."

Your voice dropped.

"News flash, Miya: I'm not worth losing your sleep over."

His jaw jumped so sharply you felt it.

Then his gaze sharpened—cutting and possessive.

"But Tsumu's worth losin' your sleep over, then?" he said, voice low and ugly with jealousy.

Your breath halted.

Oh.

So that's what this was. So that's the crack in the façade.

Your lips curled slow and cruel. Unaware of the dangerous... dangerous path you were walking down.

You let your eyes rake over him—slow and insulting.

You saw the way his breath stuttered, the way he swallowed.

"Atsumu's hot," you said casually, even though it tasted like a lie on your tongue. "Handsome. Fun. Great company."

Osamu's pupils went nuclear.

Before you could blink, his hand shot up and grabbed your face—fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing your chin up.

Not hard enough to hurt.

Just hard enough to make your pulse detonate.

Your eyes widened at him.

"If ya wanted to fuck him," he growled, so close his nose nearly brushed yours, "why didn't ya, huh?"

Your fingers curled around the counter behind you until your knuckles cramped.

"Who says I didn't?" you whispered. Even though you had the suspicion he probably knew you hadn't. His smirk confirmed it—sharp and knowing, infuriating.

So you switched tactics.

"Who says I won't?" Your voice dipped into something shameless. "Maybe I like a challenge."

The smirk vanished.

His grip tightened just enough to send heat straight down your spine.

Then he pulled you closer—hips almost brushing, chests almost touching, breath mixing with yours.

His voice came out low, dangerous and wrecked:

"Yer playin' with fire, Y/N."

You leaned into his hold, lips brushing the edge of his breath.

"Then burn."

His eyes flicked straight down to your mouth—and stayed there. Long enough for your knees to weaken against your will. Long enough for the confirmation that he was getting as horny as you were with this interaction to settle in your brain.

Your knees wobbled.

The heat between you thickened into something that felt alive.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your short breaths and his deep, laboured ones.

Then your hand bumped a knife.

It clattered to the floor, the metal crash slicing the tension clean in half.

Footsteps sounded from the back alley.

Osamu stepped back like he'd been scorched, slapping a hand over his mouth, chest rising and falling too quickly. You grabbed the nearest bowl, pretending to reach for ingredients, hands visibly trembling and your skin buzzing where he'd held you.

Anko poked her head in from the back door.

"Uh… did you drop something? I heard—"

Her eyes moved between you two.

First you.

Then Osamu.

Then the space between you that still crackled like a live electrical current.

Her eyebrows shot up.

Osamu coughed and practically fled through the front hall. You stared at the cutting board like it had deeply wronged you, missing entirely the way Osamu subtly adjusted his belt on the way out.

Anko blinked.

"…Right," she said slowly. "Totally normal. Nothing weird happening here."

And with that, she slipped back outside, leaving you standing there with your heartbeat still on the prep table and the realization that you had absolutely zero control over whatever the hell Osamu Miya did to your sanity.

You exhaled slowly—shakily—letting out the air that had been trapped in your lungs. You bent down to pick up the knife, your lip caught between your teeth, your brain still screaming.

Because—What the actual fuck had just happened?

Your cheeks still burned. Your pulse still raced. And the ghost of Osamu's touch lingered like a handprint that refused to fade on your skin.

He'd grabbed you. Looked at you with nothing but pure hate in his eyes.

And you'd loved it.

You tried—desperately—to ignore the psychological implications of that, choosing instead to wash your hands and splash cold water on your face at the sink. The stainless steel felt too bright, too reflective, every surface echoing back the frantic rise and fall of your breath.

You weren't recovered—not even close—by the time the back door opened again.

Anko stepped inside first, blinking curiously at the odd tension still hanging in the air like humidity before a storm.

Yuzu followed right behind her… and stopped dead.

Her eyes dragged slowly down your flushed cheeks and damp face, your heaving chest, your lip still trapped between your teeth—

And that wicked little smirk of hers bloomed.

"Girl why do ya look like you got strangled by a hot man?" she said, pointing at you with the hand holding her cigarette pack,.

Your soul left your body.

"W–what?!" you croaked, the heat rushing violently to your face. Then your brows furrowed. "Wait—weren't you mad at me?"

She shrugged—shrugged—and inspected her manicure like she had all the time in the world.

"Decided I could be the bigger person," she said breezily. "Anko-chan's real damn good at dialectic. Who would've thought?"

Behind her, Anko raised a quiet peace sign.

Then Yuzu nodded toward you, chin tilted up like a queen granting audience.

"Go ahead."

You blinked. "What?"

She flicked her wrist at you. "Apologise."

You stared at her.

Then sighed.

"...I'm sorry about this morning," you muttered. "You're not irresponsible. I was just—"

"Stressed. Sleep deprived," she filled in without missing a beat. Her eyes narrowed, sharp and frighteningly perceptive as they flicked between yours. "Confused… about somethin'."

Your stomach lurched.

She shrugged like she hadn't just sliced clean through your emotional armor. "We can talk about it later."

"I'd rather not."

"Expected that." She sighed, and for a moment her bravado melted, her voice dropping as she stepped closer. "I'm sorry too. About the inventory. And makin' fun of your date. Should've seen you were two seconds away from pulling yer own scalp off. Should've acted accordingly."

You shook your head.

"No, Yuzu. I can't snap at you like that just because I'm stressed. It's not fair. I won't do that again."

She nodded like she'd been waiting for that exact sentence.

"Okay. I'll have the inventory done on time next time. Now—" she wiggled her fingers, "can I have a hug, or are ya gonna stab me with that yabagina knife?"

A tiny, involuntary huff of a laugh escaped you—small, but real. You set the knife down on the counter and stepped into her arms.

"Yanagiba…" you corrected quietly, voice muffled against her as she pulled you into her chest. "It's a yanagiba knife."

She hummed and squeezed you tighter, resting her chin on the top of your head like she'd been doing it all your life.

Behind her, Anko leaned on the counter, smiling softly at the two of you—eyes warm, expression the perfect mix of relief and affection. As if confirming she was, in fact, no longer a child of divorce.

Her soft smile lingered for only a few seconds before Yuzu pulled back from the hug, holding you at arm's length like she was inspecting damage.

Her brows lifted.

"…So," she said slowly, "are ya gonna tell me what Miya was doin' here tho?"

Your stomach did a full somersault.

Of course Anko told her. Of course she did.

Yuzu crossed her arms, her smirk returning with predatory precision.

"Is that why ya had the knife?" she pressed. "I know you hate him, but yer way too pretty to go to jail. Please don't do somethin' you'll regret."

You swallowed hard.

The ghost of Osamu's grip on your face burned again. His breath, his voice, the way he'd looked at your mouth. It all burned.

You exhaled, wiped your palms down your apron, and looked at Anko with a calm expression you didn't really feel at all.

"Has Suna texted you yet?"

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