a box of memories

By 10 p.m., though, the eatery is nearly empty. There are a couple of college-aged students in the far corner, and there's a man on the opposite side of the dining area with earbuds in, watching something on a tablet.

As you look over the menu laid out in front of you, you hear footsteps heading your way. A plate clinks against the counter as the ceramic is set just to your right, and the soft thud of something else being placed immediately follows.

"It's on the house."

You glance at the plate. There are two onigiri nestled neatly together. A beverage also awaits you — a milk tea, you assume, based on how it looks. Both look delicious, and you take a short breath to keep your mouth from watering.

As hungry as you are, though, your confusion wins out. "I didn't order this," you say, brow furrowed as your attention shifts to the person you'll dub your snack sponsor for the night.

He hovers by the counter as he looks at you. He's tall and broad, the fitted black t-shirt he's wearing highlighting his form. The black baseball cap on his head sports the same Onigiri Miya logo as his tee. His hair's dark beneath it, and his eyes match. When your gaze meets his, you quickly notice that although his grey irises show how tired he is after what you can only assume has been a long day, there's still a friendly glimmer in them as he replies.

"Course ya didn't. That's why they're on the house," the man tells you. "Can't charge ya if it's not somethin' ya ordered."

You don't mean to sound skeptical, really, but you can't help it as you ask him why.

As he watches you pick up one of the onigiri, he hums. It's low, seated deeply in his chest. "Look like ya could use it. That's all," he says, one shoulder lifting as if letting your suspicion roll off his back. "And I don't feel like having to deal with leftovers in the mornin'."

You look like you could use it.

That's exactly what you want to hear when a stupidly handsome man is standing in front of you.

"I look that bad, huh?" you ask, a small laugh escaping you, but there's no humor behind it. You weren't sure what the giveaway was: smudged eyeliner from crying on the phone to your best friend, red eyes from wiping away your tears of frustration, the hint of congestion as you spoke, or maybe just your general vibe. It could be any or all of the above.

He clicks his tongue. "Don't think I said all that. Just look like it's been a long day, and I'm sure I look the same. Been at it since 7:30 this morning," he shares. He gestures to the onigiri you're still holding. "Eat. That one's tuna and mayo, the other's bonito."

He walks away after that, moving back behind the curtain separating the kitchen from the dining area. You hear the clattering of dishes as you take your first bite of the rice ball.

It's good. Really good. The tuna tastes fresh, and it's neither too dry nor too wet. The rice is good, too — fluffy and sticky without being too heavy. One bite is enough to make you understand why the place is always so packed when you walk by. You've been robbing yourself, you conclude. The milk tea is good, too, but the onigiri really is the star of the show.

The employee comes back out. He gives a quick wave to someone behind you — tablet guy, you're guessing — and wishes him goodnight by name. About a meter down from you, he sets a caddy holding small bowls down on the counter. As he begins to store them beneath the counter, he glances your way. The lines around his eyes soften a bit as he offers you a nod of acknowledgment.

"That's better. Can't have anybody sittin' at my counter lookin' that upset. I got a reputation to uphold."

The gentle smile he shares is enough to let you know it's not about his reputation.

You return to Onigiri Miya a week later. The scene is mostly the same this time around. This late at night, most people have already settled in at home, leaving only a couple of others dining in. You take a seat on the same stool at the counter, not bothering to look at the menu this time.

The man from last time is standing at the register, cell phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder as he takes notes on a legal pad. You can tell by his tone and the lazy smirk on his lips that he's giving someone grief; his accent sounds a little stronger than you remember, too. It's strangely comforting.

He tosses the notepad next to the register and appears to hang up the call, slipping his phone into his pocket as he approaches you.

"Welcome to — well now, it's you," he says, putting his hands on his hips. "Welcome back. Ya don't look like you're about to cry this time, so that's good."

You can feel heat rushing to your cheeks, but you laugh, too. "I'm not coming here right after an awful date this time," you reply.

He lets out a low whistle. "My guess was somethin' work-related, but that woulda been my second pick," he jokes, attempting to keep the mood light. "What can I get for you?"

"If it's not too much trouble, I thought I'd let you pick for me again," you suggest. "I'm happy with whatever you recommend or whatever helps you get rid of anything you don't want to deal with tomorrow."

After a second, he nods. "Yeah. I can do that," he says. "Give me a few minutes."

He drops off a milk tea for you soon after.

The next time he comes by, he sets a plate down in front of you. There are three onigiri this time: one salmon, one pickled plum, and one grilled in miso, he tells you.

You tell him they're delicious.

After the only other diners head out, he offers you his full attention. He swipes a chair from one of the dining room tables, lifting it over the counter like it weighs nothing, and sets it down opposite you. He settles on it comfortably, and when you ask him why he didn't just come sit at the counter, he simply grins and shakes his head.

"Still technically on the clock, so I'll keep hangin' out on the staff side," he replies.

His name is Miya Osamu, you learn. He owns Onigiri Miya, and this is the flagship location, but he's currently scouting out a spot for a second restaurant somewhere in Tokyo. He's around your age — a smidge older, but there's not enough of a difference to really count for anything.

He's always liked cooking, always found comfort in food. He gravitated towards onigiri because he likes how creative you can get while making them, and it's helpful how convenient they are. Plus, he shares, he always enjoyed making them with his mom when he was a kid.

Osamu asks about you, too. He's not satisfied with learning your name, your age, and your profession. He wants to know what you're passionate about, what you like to do in your free time. You can tell he's listening by the way he asks follow-up questions.

It's refreshing.

When you eventually leave, he sends you home with a couple of extra onigiri. "For tomorrow," he tells you.

Over the next few months, he begins to fit into your life with ease.

You drop by Onigiri Miya a few times a week, usually late at night when it's practically empty, your sleep schedule be damned right along with his. He continues to share pieces of his life, and in turn, you do the same. You've met some of his friends, including his twin brother — which had been quite the experience, because wow, they sure are different — and he met your best friend when the two of you had gone by the restaurant one night after having too many drinks at a nearby bar.

Today, he's at your apartment. It isn't the first time he's been over, but it is the first time he's dropped by and you're embarrassed about it.

You'd been standing in three centimeters of water when he'd called to ask if you were up for spending the afternoon together. It'd be one thing if you'd just stepped in a puddle out in the parking lot after a nice rain; instead, you were frozen in your flooded kitchen after a pipe had burst.

"Did ya call maintenance?" he'd asked over the phone.

"Um, yes, yeah, but they said it's not an emergency since I got the water cut off. They'll fix it tomorrow, but all the water in here, I don't even -."

He had sighed, and you could practically see him shaking his head. "And the water's cut off. Did ya turn off the power at the breaker?" he asked. You could hear him moving around.

"The - Shit. No," you'd told him, carefully padding your way out of the kitchen and towards the utility room. "Doing that now. Thanks."

"Go get some towels and hang tight. I'll be there soon."

You'd waited for Osamu in your living room, trying not to think about your flooring. True to his word, he'd shown up at your front door about fifteen minutes later carrying a pump vac.

It'd taken some effort, but by the time he's done, almost all of the standing water is gone. Towels will easily clean up the remainder. As he turns the vacuum off, he looks at where you stand in the entryway.

"This is so embarrassing," you say.

He blinks slowly, and you don't miss the wry grin he's wearing. "Most people would just say 'thanks', ya know," he says. "What're ya embarrassed about?"

With a small huff, you hold your arms out, gesturing around the room. "Oh, you know, all of this," you reply. You continue talking as you grab one of the towels, spreading it out over the floor to wipe up what's left of the mess. "Having to be rescued in my own kitchen, for example. Why does the universe like to have you see me during some of my worst moments?"

Osamu effortlessly catches the towel you toss to him, parroting your actions. "Pretty sure it lets me see ya during some of your best moments, too. Couple weeks ago, we celebrated your promotion," he reminds you. He reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck. "But if ya want the truth, I'm - I think I'm pretty damn lucky I get to be the one ya call when ya need something."

Your gaze flicks upward quickly, looking at him through your lashes. The sentiment is sweet — not saccharine, but it still makes your heart thump a bit louder in your chest. For a few moments, the two of you bask in the silence.

Unable to take it for too long, Osamu clears his throat. "If it makes ya feel better, you're the one I call, too," he says. "Like that time I needed a change of clothes at work -."

You laugh at the memory, the image of him standing in Onigiri Miya's kitchen while soaking wet from head to toe successfully cutting through the tension.

"Shut up," he warns playfully as he continues, breaking into a laugh when he hears yours, "or when I locked myself outta my apartment and couldn't find a locksmith to come out at 2 a.m."

You find yourself wringing your hands that were clasped in front of you. Still, your smile grows as you move across the room to stand next to him. Your body language mirrors his, the two of you standing on an old towel, leaning against your kitchen counter while facing one another. "I like being the person you come to when you need help, too," you admit softly. "It feels… natural. Comfortable, I mean. I like doing what I can to help you."

"Then ya understand why this shouldn't be embarrassin'. This ain't nothing," he says, voice low. He reaches out, the pads of his fingers gently brushing away something. An errant eyelash, a drop of sweat, who knows? It's so casually intimate that your breath catches, and you don't have time to think about it. "And even if it was, I'd still want to be here. Got it?"

His words are resolute, leaving no room for argument. You can't imagine wanting to, anyway, with the way he's looking at you.

"Got it. Thank you," you reply. Without thinking twice, you press a tender kiss to his cheek.

Osamu's cheeks darken, but his wry grin reappears, more boyish in its charm this time. "I think breakin' out the pump vac is worth a little more than that," he teases.

It's your turn to tell him to shut up, and he gleefully does as your lips meet his and his hands quickly move to rest against your sides.

When you delete the dating app from your phone that night, you almost want to laugh. You can't even remember the last time you opened it.