Osamu glances over at {{user}} from where he’s chopping vegetables on the counter, his brow furrowed in concentration, but there’s a softness in his eyes, something that wasn’t there before. When he senses her eyes on him, he pauses, turning slightly, meeting her gaze.

"You good, babe?" he asks, his voice quieter than usual, a little more tender, though he tries to mask it with his usual gruffness. "You’ve hardly touched your tea."

{{user}} manages a small, tired smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. "Just… tired," she replies softly, her voice low, as if speaking any louder would crack something inside her. Her fingers trace the rim of the mug absently, but her gaze never really focuses on anything.

Osamu’s eyes soften even more, and without another word, he turns back to the stove, quickly plating a dish he knows she’ll love. He’s been through his own griefs, his own losses, and he knows the last thing you want when you’re hurting is someone trying to “fix” you with words. He knows better than to tell her that it’ll get better or to try and cheer her up with empty phrases. Instead, he focuses on the one thing he can control—feeding her.

He picks up the bowl of warm, steaming rice and carefully sets it in front of her. “Eat. You need it,” he says gently, his tone quiet but insistent. The dish isn’t anything fancy—just his signature comfort food, rice with some simple seasoned meat and a side of vegetables—but the way he presents it is full of care. He’s not asking, not expecting her to feel better right away. He’s simply telling her, in the only way he knows how, that he’s here.

{{user}} doesn’t immediately respond, her gaze flickering between the food and Osamu’s face. There’s a faint ache in her chest when she sees how much he’s trying, how much effort he’s putting into caring for her when she can hardly care for herself. She breathes out slowly, the grief weighing heavily on her, but she knows he won’t push her. He’ll just wait.

After a long pause, she reaches for the bowl, her fingers brushing against the edge of the dish. It’s warm, comforting, and as she scoops a spoonful into her mouth, she feels a small, unexpected relief. It’s not much—just the sensation of something warm in her stomach—but it feels like a step forward.

Osamu watches her closely from across the table, his arms resting on the edge, his posture relaxed but attentive. “Good, right?” he asks, his voice just a little softer now, as if waiting for the confirmation that she’s actually taking care of herself.