The little restaurant was bustling, filled with the comforting clatter of dishes and the murmur of conversations, but you barely noticed.

Today wasn’t about anyone else—it was about Osamu Miya, and his recent win that had clearly left him riding high on a wave of adrenaline and pride.

You had insisted on taking him out for lunch, a small celebration to mark his achievement, and he had agreed with that easy, bright smile that made everything feel lighter.

Osamu had ordered like a man possessed.

Plates piled high with noodles, bowls of rice, and side dishes seemed to multiply before him, yet he attacked the meal with that characteristic intensity, his chopsticks moving with near-impossible speed and precision.

Every so often, he would look up at you with that grin, the kind that was all teeth and sunlight, clearly delighted by the fact that you were watching.

By the time he leaned back, rubbing his stomach and sighing in contentment, it was obvious he had eaten far more than any reasonable person should.

Yet, even in his satiated state, his gaze didn’t leave your plate.

His golden eyes followed every bite you took, every movement of your utensils, and you caught the subtle twitch of his lips as if debating the impossible. “Do I dare?”

Finally, after a long pause, he leaned slightly forward, eyes gleaming with mischief and a hint of hunger that had nothing to do with his own plate anymore.

You set down your fork, sensing the silent pressure in his gaze.

He didn’t say a word, but the intent was clear: he wanted to taste yours, to steal just a little bit of what you had been enjoying.

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, shaking your head.

Osamu’s composure was always easy to read when it came to food—his competitive streak, his mischievous side, his endless appetite—but seeing it aimed at your meal made it feel personal in a warm, teasing way.

He reached slowly, dramatically, like a performer playing to an audience of one, and tapped the edge of your plate with his fingers.

The playful tension was electric, the air between you charged with that mixture of amusement and lighthearted challenge that always seemed to follow him.

He waited, silent but insistent, daring you to offer, knowing full well that part of the fun was watching you hesitate.

That look—eyes bright, posture leaning ever so slightly forward, mouth twitching with anticipation—was pure Osamu: competitive, affectionate, and utterly unrestrained in the most charming way.