The lunch rush at Onigiri Miya is a kind of chaos you've always loved with paper bags crinkling, the steady hiss of rice hitting hot pans, and the warm smell of soy and seaweed in the air. But it isn't the food or the bustle that makes your heart swell — it's the man working beside you.

Osamu stands behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair a little messy from the steam, focused as ever on shaping rice into perfect little triangles. His movements are quick, practiced, efficient, and maybe you're biased, but no one could make an onigiri look that good.

“Can ya quit starin’?” Osamu mutters under his breath, lips twitching like he was trying not to smile.

“I’m not staring,” you say cheerfully, turning back to the customer waiting for their order. “I’m bragging. Did you know he used to play pro volleyball? Miya Osamu, in the flesh. Hands that once spiked balls at 120 kilometers per hour are now making your lunch.”

Osamu lets out a long-suffering groan as the customer laughs, clearly entertained. He shakes his head, sliding the finished onigiri into its wrap and passing it down to you for bagging. “Yer impossible.”

“And you love it,” you grin, dropping the order into the paper bag before handing it off with a bright smile.

The door chimes again, more customers streaming in, and the cycle continues — Osamu shaping, you bagging and chatting, keeping the line entertained with your warmth while he worked in his quiet, focused way. But even as he moves with that calm efficiency, his eyes flick toward you every so often, that tiny glint of pride he’d never say out loud softening the edges of his expression.

You lean into him during a rare lull, elbow nudging his side. “What? You think I’m embarrassing?”

“Nah,” Osamu mutters quietly, eyes still on the rice in his hands. His voice low, warm, just for you. “Think yer the best thing ta ever happen to this shop. Or me.”