Help Iβm thinking of Osamu Miya, 36, Onigiri Miya owner, 6β2, with muscles that were once defined and lean for Volleyball turned soft and cushioned by a layer of fat, meant more for throwing bags of rice and boxes of ingredients than reaching over a net.
Osamu Miya who always smells like cooking spice, rice starch, and the remnants of cologne that he put on at 4 in the morning in an attempt to be more human than onigiri master.
Osamu Miya who has one single dimple on his left cheek when he grins, and a small chip in one of his front teeth from when his brother elbowed him as a teenager, chews on his pens when heβs doing the restaurantβs budget, and still has text books from his business classes in uni because he βmight need to remember somethinβ.β
Osamu Miya who keeps his bitches constantly about his twin but always has his games playing on the tv in the corner and mysteriously has Atsumuβs favorites ready for him when they lose. Who goes to visit his mom every Saturday night so he can βdo his laundryβ even though he stopped bringing clothes over 8 years ago.
Osamu Miya who always makes sure to kiss you before he leaves in the morning, even if youβre still asleep in bed because sun hasnβt even crested over the horizon yet. Who then laughs when he walks into the back office of the shop and finds you curled up on the ratty old couch he has against the wall, scratchy throw blanket his Gran knitted 5 decades ago wrapped around you as you sleep against his jacket.
Osamu Miya that grins, all dimple and chipped tooth, as you yawn and mumble that you couldnβt sleep at home because he took his smell with him. Who thinks that maybe he wonβt wait for a special occasion to give you that ring thatβs been burning a hole in his desk drawer.
