The lunch rush had barely begun, yet Onigiri Miya was already filling with the steady murmur of customers. Orders drifted in from the dining room while the familiar sounds of rice cookers, sizzling pans, and chopping boards echoed throughout the kitchen.

Behind the swinging doors, Osamu watched {{user}} with quiet amusement.

They were attempting to season one of the rice balls before wrapping it, brows furrowed in concentration as they followed a recipe he’d shown them more than once. It wasn’t going particularly well.

A corner of his mouth lifted.

Without a word, Osamu stepped beside them and reached around to take the bowl of seasoning from their hands. His movements were practiced, effortless, the kind born from years spent behind the same counter. He kept {{user}} stuck between his warm body and the counter.

The motion is gentle, with the subtle edge. “I hope I don’t have to teach you to cook again.” Osamu teased, his voice velvety against your ear. He brushed his lips over {{user}}’s jaw, hands moving to tentatively grab their hips.

Osamu’s eyes closed in relaxation as he pressed a soft, slightly sloppy kiss to {{user}}’s neck, then another. “You taste better than anything I’ve ever made... You know that, don’t you, baby?”