˖ ݁♬⋆ 𝒥ᥱᥣᥣι's 𝒞ᥲfᥱ ⋆.˚𝄞

now, nearly a decade later, the situation had escalated from a minor neighborhood nuisance to a structural hazard for your sanity.

“you’re looking at me like you want to chew off my arm,” you said, not taking your eyes off your laptop screen.

you were sitting at the miya family kitchen table, surrounded by three different highlighters, a binder full of university notes on microeconomics, and a lukewarm mug of hot chocolate. your mom was outside chatting with osamu’s mom over gossip and chopped radishes, which meant you were trapped upstairs in the line of fire.

“i don’t want to chew your arm,” osamu said smoothly. he was leaning against the doorframe, wearing his inarizaki jersey, looking far too large for the doorway. he had a damp towel hanging around his neck and his hair was still sticking up in dark, spiky clumps from the shower. “i just want to hold your hand while you read that boring stuff. gives my fingers something useful to do.”

“this is not boring stuff, this is supply and demand,” you muttered, tapping your pencil against the desk. “and you have a math test on thursday that you haven’t opened a book for.”

“i know everything about supply and demand,” he declared, taking three massive, deliberate strides across the floor. he pulled up a wooden chair, spun it around backward, and dropped his chin onto the top rail, sitting so close that his knees pressed against the outside of your thigh. “you’re the supply. i’m the overwhelming, desperate, bottomless demand.”

you closed your eyes for a long, quiet three seconds, breathing through your nose. “osamu.”

“y/n.”

“you’re eighteen years old as of four days ago.”

“legal,” he pointed out instantly, his eyes gleaming with the terrifying, razor-sharp focus of an eagle targeting a field mouse. “which means you can stop using the ‘you’re just a kid’ defense. it’s dead. buried in the backyard next to atsumu’s dignity.”

“you’re still in high school!” you dragged a hand down your face, feeling the familiar warmth creeping up the back of your neck. it was infuriating how good he looked now. at twelve, he was a loud, rice-obsessed little gremlin who followed you around like a duckling. at fifteen, he had sprouted five inches overnight and started looking at you with this intense quietness that made your pulse jump out of its skin. now, at eighteen, he was basically a brick wall with a jawline, sitting two inches away from you and radiating heat like a freshly stoked woodstove. “i have midterms! i have adult problems! i’m older than you!”

“two years,” osamu said, completely unfazed. he reached out, his thick, calloused fingers gently wrapping around the wrist of the hand you were holding your pencil with. he didn’t pull, just held it, his thumb sliding back and forth over your pulse point with a steady rhythm. “two years is nothing. in twenty years you’ll be forty and i’ll be thirty-eight and we’ll still be eating dinner together every night, so you might as well get used to it now.”

your breath hitched, a tiny, embarrassing sound in the quiet kitchen. “you’re ridiculously confident for someone who got a twelve on his last english essay.”

“atsumu got an eight,” he countered seamlessly. “and english doesn’t matter. i know how to say ‘i adore you’ in three different dialects, and i know how to feed you until you make that stupid little sound in the back of your throat when something tastes good. what else do we need?”

“a license to keep you fifty feet away from me,” you grumbled, though you didn’t pull your hand away. you couldn’t. his thumb was so warm, his hand so large and grounding against your desk-stiffened joints, that moving felt like a crime against your own physical comfort.

osamu noticed. of course he noticed. his mouth twitched up at the corner, a tiny, rare smirk that made his dark eyes crinkle at the edges.

without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward, dragging his chair an inch closer. the scent of his soap—something clean and sharp like cedar and fresh rain—flooded your lungs, instantly rendering your brain into a bowl of lukewarm porridge.

“i brought you something,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave into that low, rumble-in-the-chest tone that made your face feel hotter than ever.

he reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped piece of plastic film. inside was a perfectly shaped, gleaming triangular rice ball, wrapped in crisp sea kelp and dusted with sesame seeds.

“i made it twenty minutes ago,” osamu whispered, setting it down gently right on top of your open economics textbook, directly over a graph about marginal utility. “spicy tuna. the kind you like with the extra pickled radish inside.”

you stared at the rice ball. then you stared at him. “are you bribing me?”

“i’m courting you,” he corrected, absolutely zero shame in his voice. he leaned his chin down onto his arm, looking up at you through his long, dark eyelashes like a massive, six-foot golden retriever begging for a piece of steak. “there’s a difference. bribes are temporary. courting means i’m gonna keep making these for you until we’re eighty.”

“osamu, i swear to god—”

“eat it,” he coaxed gently, taking your pencil out of your hand and replacing it with the warm, heavy weight of the rice ball. “you’ve been studying for three hours. your face is pale and your shoulders are up by your ears. eat it or i’ll feed it to you myself.”

“you wouldn’t dare.”

“try me,” he said softly, a dangerous, dark little spark flashing in his eyes. “i’ve got no manners when it comes to you. you know that.”

he wasn’t lying. osamu was usually the quiet twin, the sensible (🤔) one, the one who kept his head down and cooked his food and ignored his brother’s theatrical meltdowns. but when it came to you, every ounce of his restraint melted straight into a thick, gooey puddle of devotion. he was a guy who would burn down a building with no remorse if you mentioned you were chilly, then offer you his jacket like he hadn’t just committed a felony for your comfort.

you took a small bite of the rice ball.

it was, predictably, the best thing you had ever put in your mouth. the rice was perfect, the spice hit the back of your throat just right, and the crunchy radish added a bright, salty burst that made your whole face relax. you let out a soft, involuntary sigh, sinking back into your chair.

osamu watched you with a expression so sickeningly sweet it could have given a dentist a heart attack on the spot. he looked like he had just been handed the keys to the entire universe.

“good?” he asked, his voice soft as velvet.

“it’s fine,” you lied terribly, taking another, much larger bite.

“liar. you love it.” osamu stood up, but instead of walking away, he moved around behind your chair. you froze as his large, heavy hands settled onto your shoulders, his thumbs immediately finding the knot of tension right at the base of your neck and pressing down with absolute, professional precision.

you let out a whimper before you could stop yourself.

“jesus,” you gasped, your head dropping forward. “where did you learn to do that?”

“practiced on myself after volleyball,” he muttered, digging his thumbs deep into your trapezius muscles, working out the stiffness from hours of slouching over textbooks. “but mostly i just thought about how tight your shoulders get when you study. you hold all your stress right here. it drives me crazy.”

his breath was warm against the top of your head. every touch was heavy, deliberate, and so dripping with quiet affection that you felt like you were drowning in syrup.

“osamu,” you breathed, closing your eyes as he moved his hands down to the small of your back, pressing through the fabric of your clothes. “this is unfair.”

“what’s unfair?”

“you. coming in here with food and massages while i’m trying to fail my classes in peace.”

“you’re not gonna fail,” he whispered. he leaned down, his chest pressing against the back of your head, his face burying right into the curve where your neck met your shoulder. he took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. “and even if you do, i’ll build us a little shop by the train station. you can sit at the register and tell me i’m annoying, and i’ll make rice balls for you all day.”

your heart gave a violent, terrible thud against your ribs. “that sounds like a terrible business model.”

“it’s a great business model,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin just below your ear. a wild, electic shiver shot straight down your spine, making your hands twitch on your lap. “i don’t care about the money. i just want you in the room.”

you turned your head slightly, catching his eye. he was looking at you from inches away, his dark grey eyes completely clear, completely devoid of any joking or teenage bravado. he meant every single syllable. he had meant it when he was nine, he meant it now, and he would mean it when he was gray and senile.

“you’re absolutely rotten,” you said, your voice softening.

“i know,” osamu agreed instantly, his thumb reaching out to gently wipe a tiny grain of rice from the corner of your lower lip. he didn’t pull his hand back; instead, his thumb lingered, softly resting against your chin, tilting your face up toward his. “so give in. i’ve been waiting six years. i’m polite, but i’m running out of patience.”

“you were twelve six years ago!”

“and i was right then, too,” he said softly.

and then, he finally leaned down the remaining two inches and pressed his mouth to yours.

osamu kissed the way he ate—completely devoted, thorough, and with consuming hunger that made your brain short-circuit instantly. his mouth was warm, soft, and tasted faintly of sweet rice and chocolate. his hand slid around from your shoulder to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to hold you right where he wanted you, pulling you up until you were practically standing out of your chair just to meet him halfway.

you let out a tiny, breathless gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his athletic jersey, crumpling the smooth polyester in your fists.

when he finally pulled back, just half an inch, his forehead rested against yours. his breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling against your chest, his dark eyes wide and bright with a frantic, triumphant joy.

“there,” osamu whispered, his mouth curling into a broad, stupid, utterly helpless grin that made him look like the happiest idiot on the planet. “now you’re my girlfriend. you can’t undo it, it’s a binding verbal contract.”

you stared at him, your lips tingling, your face burning hot enough to fry an egg, your mind completely cleared of all microeconomics equations.

“i didn’t agree to anything,” you stammered, though your hands were still tightly clenched in his shirt.

osamu leaned down and kissed you again, short and hard on the mouth, making a satisfying little sound. “you held onto my shirt. that counts as signing in ink.”

he let go of your neck, pulled your chair back out, and sat down on the floor right beside your legs, resting his chin on your knee and looking up at you like you had personally hung the moon in the sky just for him.

“now finish your rice,” he ordered gently, settling his large hands over your ankles like heavy anchors. “i’m gonna sit right here and watch you study until our moms calls us down.”

n: i love replay omfgofmfofmt

© showhay — don’t copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do not use/feed my works to AI.