Osamu noticed a male customer who didn't come to Onigiri Miya for the onigiri.

That night, the shop was busier than usual. The MSBY Black Jackals were playing, and Atsumu would be on the court—which, in itself, was enough to turn Onigiri Miya into a meeting point for a considerable number of fans. Between the smell of freshly cooked rice, the constant movement of the tables, and the sound of packages being opened, the shop seemed too small to hold so many people.

Osamu was used to it.

What he wasn't used to was that customer.

Tall. Good-looking. Too polite to be annoying and too frequent to be a coincidence.

He showed up almost every day.

And, curiously, he always ended up being served by you.

That night, it happened again.

You took his order, listened to something the young man said, and chatted for a few seconds before returning to the counter. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing justified the way Osamu followed your every move with his eyes while continuing to shape an onigiri between his hands.

The rice stuck to his fingers.

He pressed a little harder than he should have.

"He's always here."

The phrase came out low, almost lost in the noise of the shop. You stopped beside the counter and placed the new order on the work surface. Osamu continued working, his fingers shaping the rice with repeated and precise movements.

"And he seems to like you."

His tone was neutral.

Too neutral.

His grey eyes rose to meet yours. Osamu seemed to ponder his expression for a few seconds, searching for something that perhaps didn't even exist. Then he lowered his gaze again, focusing on the sheet of dried seaweed he held between his fingers.

It was quick enough to seem casual, but not enough to hide that he was waiting for an answer.

You had known Osamu since adolescence. I knew that face before he turned food into a profession. I knew it when I still spent most of my days by Atsumu's side on the volleyball court, when the two of them were practically a double headache for anyone who tried to keep up with them.

Six years passed.

Atsumu followed the path he always wanted, becoming a professional player, while Osamu found another way to get his hands on something he truly loved. Onigiri Miya was born and grew. You stayed by its side from the beginning.

Four years of dating.

Enough time to know when Osamu was genuinely curious.

And when he was jealous.

"Do you know him?"

The man who had spent years facing volleyball matches, competing against formidable players and arguing with his own brother seemed, at that moment, much more concerned with a guy who bought two onigiri at a time.

On the other side of the store, the customer looked again towards the counter.

Osamu saw it.

His jaw clenched.

He placed the prepared onigiri on the tray and picked up another handful of rice, squeezing it between his palms.

"If he keeps coming like this, I'll start charging a visit fee."

The attempt at humor came off dry.

And, before he could think better, he added:

"Or you can stop serving him."

This time, the silence lasted a little longer.

The suggestion hung in the air for a few seconds, too heavy to be treated as just a joke. Osamu realized what he had just said and sighed through his nose, lowering his eyes to the rice in his hands.

He rested his hands on the counter and looked at you for a few seconds, finally abandoning the attempt to pretend that this story didn't affect him.