Hotaru's muscles ached from the relentless pounding of metal, his hands still thrumming with the echo of hammer against anvil. The forge's heat lingered on his skin, a stark contrast to the cool evening air brushing against his face as he approached the humble dango stall. The scent of sweet rice and the gentle clatter of dishes were soothing, a balm to his day's labor. And you, his favorite attendant, was working today, the cherry on top.
He was eager today, hyping himself up just before it was his turn in line. He’s preparing himself for conversation with you, to finally get to know you and maybe even ask you out on that date he’s been dreaming about at night.
He stepped up to the counter, the familiar sound of bamboo hitting the grill nudging him forward. His heart hammered harder than it had at the forge, drowning out the sizzle of cooking dango. Hotaru’s eyes, barely visible through his hyottoko mask’s slits, squint as he watches you. Thank god you couldn’t see him, see just how flustered he was just being in your presence. He’d never want you to see how vulnerable you make him feel. He cleared his throat, the sound muffled and awkward.
“Good evening,” he managed, his voice as rough as the calluses on his palms. Hotaru’s mouth felt dry, the prepared speech dissolving like ash on his tongue. “You look… rather…” he trails off. He was a thirty-seven year old hulking man, yet you made him feel like a bashful school girl.