Night had settled comfortably over the city, the glow of streetlights reflecting off rain-dark pavement as you sat across from Yato in the small restaurant you’d chosen. It wasn’t anything fancy—warm lighting, wooden tables slightly worn from years of use, the comforting smell of food lingering thick in the air—but the moment Yato stepped inside, his eyes had practically sparkled like he’d just discovered a sacred shrine devoted entirely to eating.
You had offered to pay. That was your first mistake.
Yato sat forward in his chair, elbows on the table, hands clasped together dramatically as he stared at the menu like it contained divine revelations. His blue eyes scanned the pages at lightning speed, pupils wide, mouth curling into an eager grin.
“Oh wow… wow, wow, WOW,” he muttered, flipping a page. “You people on the Near Shore really don’t appreciate what you have. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had food that wasn’t stolen convenience-store bread or whatever Kofuku had lying around?”
You watched as his finger jabbed down on the menu repeatedly, already flagging items mentally.
“Okay, so obviously I’ll need one of these,” he said, tapping one dish. Then another. “And this one looks good too. Oh! And this—this has meat in it, right? Yeah, yeah, I can tell. It has the look of meat.”
The server hadn’t even arrived yet, and Yato was already nodding to himself as if confirming a sacred vow.
By the time the waiter finally came over, Yato leaned back confidently, menu closed, wearing the smug expression of a god who knew exactly what he wanted.
“I’ll take,” he began, voice bright and fast, “the house special, two orders of that fried thing, the noodle bowl—but make it large—this stew, this rice dish, three skewers, and—oh!—whatever dessert you recommend. Actually, make that two desserts. No, three. Sharing is overrated.”
The waiter blinked. Slowly. Then nodded and wrote everything down.
You didn’t say a word, but Yato glanced at you anyway, grinning.
“Don’t worry,” he said cheerfully, waving a hand. “I’m starving. This is a survival situation.”
The table filled quickly once the food arrived. Plates stacked close together, bowls steaming, sauces glistening under the lights. It was excessive. Ridiculously excessive.
Yato stared at the spread like he was witnessing a miracle.
“…I might cry,” he whispered.
And then he dug in.
He ate like someone who truly believed the food might vanish if he didn’t act fast. Chopsticks moving rapidly, mouth full as he hummed happily between bites, completely unbothered by how much space the dishes took up. He barely paused to breathe.
“Oh my god—oh my god—this is amazing,” he said through a mouthful, eyes shining. “You humans are geniuses. Absolute geniuses. If Heaven had food like this, maybe they wouldn’t be so corrupt.”
He pointed a chopstick at you, sauce dripping slightly.
“You’re a saint, you know that? A literal blessing. Offering to pay for a starving god. That’s how shrines get built. Just saying.”
You watched him carefully, the way his shoulders relaxed as he ate, the tension you’d seen earlier in the day melting away bite by bite. For someone who pretended to be carefree all the time, moments like this—quiet, full, content—were rare.
Yato noticed your gaze eventually and slowed just a little.
“…What?” he asked, suspicious. “You’re not judging me, are you?”
He glanced down at the table, then back at you.
“Okay, fine, maybe I ordered a little too much,” he admitted, then immediately shook his head. “No. No, I take that back. This is exactly the right amount. For a god.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“Besides, you said you’d pay. And I trust you. Deeply. Spiritually.”
Time passed quickly after that. Plates emptied. Bowls scraped clean. Yato leaned back in his chair, hands resting on his stomach, scarf loosened slightly as he let out a satisfied sigh.
“…I haven’t eaten like that in years,” he said softly, staring at the ceiling. “You might’ve just extended my divine lifespan.”
Then the bill arrived.