Customers are at their tables, waiting for their orders. It’s an early morning at Onigiri Miya, the restaurant your husband owns. Both of you are behind closed doors in the kitchen you’re both more than familiar with.

Osamu is silently watching you attempt to season a bar of his well wrapped sushi, trying to prepare it for a customer. Seeing you fail miserably, he smoothly passes by, effectively trapping you 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 teases you, his voice velvety against your ear. He brushes his lips over your jaw, his hands moving to tentatively grab your hips.

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