Chapter two || The Bitter Half - O. Miya
Sushi L/N was the only shop in the alley until Osamu Miya moved in next door. Now, it's a constant war between your famous sushi donuts and his traditional rice balls. Between chalkboard insults and secret food swaps, your biggest rival is becoming your favorite distraction
Contains: enemies to lovers, food wars, slow burn, workplace rivalry, smut
The morning air in the alley was usually filled with the scent of toasted sesame and the sharp, clean sting of rice vinegar. Today, however, it smelled like stress. I was halfway through glazing a batch of "Midnight Moon" donuts black rice topped with seared scallop and gold leaf when I saw the black town car pull up at the end of the cobblestone path.
Nobody drives a town car into this neighborhood unless theyâre lost or theyâre Keiko Sato.
Keiko Sato was the "Vulture of the Valley." She was a food critic whose blog could make a restaurantâs line wrap around the block or turn its kitchen into a storage unit overnight. She didn't just eat, she dissected. And she was currently walking toward our two shops with a digital camera around her neck and a look of supreme boredom on her face.
I dropped my glaze brush. My heart did a nervous tap dance against my ribs. I looked toward the side window.
Osamu was already there. He was leaning against his prep table, his eyes fixed on Sato as she stopped in the middle of the alley, looking back and forth between the bright, artistic signage of Sushi L/N and the stark, wooden simplicity of Onigiri Miya.
"You seeing this?" I whispered, leaning toward the glass.
Osamu didn't even blink. "She looks like she hasn't eaten a carb since the nineties. This is gonna be a disaster."
"For you, maybe," I snapped, trying to regain my competitive edge even though my hands were shaking. "She likes 'innovation.' My donuts are the definition of innovation. Your rice balls are... well, theyâre ancient history."
"She likes 'authenticity,' Y/N," Osamu countered, his voice low and steady. "She hates gimmicks. And your shop is currently glowing so bright I can see it from space."
Before I could come up with a witty retort about his shop looking like a cardboard box, Sato moved. She didn't go into mine. She didn't go into his. She walked to the single, narrow wooden table that sat directly on the property line the one weâd been fighting over for weeks and sat down.
She pulled out a notebook and tapped it twice. Then, she looked up and made eye contact with both of us through our respective windows.
"Iâm not here for a meal," she called out, her voice carrying easily in the narrow space. "Iâm here for a story. Iâve heard this alley is home to aâŠdisagreement. I want to see which philosophy holds up under pressure. Bring me your best. At the same time."
I looked at Osamu. He looked at me. For the first time since he moved in, we weren't glaring because we wanted to; we were looking at each other because we were terrified.
"If she pans us both, the landlord will hike the rent for 'lack of prestige,'" I hissed through the window.
Osamu straightened his apron, his expression shifting from bored to deadly serious. "I know. If we lose the alley, we both lose."
"So... a truce?" I asked, holding out a hand toward the glass.
He looked at my hand, then at Sato, who was checking her watch. "Just for today. Don't get used to it."
The next twenty minutes were a blur of high-speed precision. I wasn't just making a donut; I was making a statement. I chose the "Imperial Ring" premium fatty tuna, hand-picked edible pansies, a drizzle of truffle-infused soy, and the thinnest shards of gold leaf I possessed. It was a masterpiece of color and texture.
Through the window, I watched Osamu. He was a machine. His movements were fluid, almost hypnotic. He wasn't using any fancy tools just his hands and a bowl of salted water. He was molding a single, large onigiri filled with spicy cod roe, wrapped in a sheet of nori so crisp I could hear it snap from my side of the glass.
We finished at the exact same time.
We stepped out of our doors simultaneously, plates in hand. I wore my best "Iâm a professional" smile, while Osamu maintained his "Iâm a stoic master" vibe. We reached the table and set our dishes down at the exact same second.
Sato looked at the plates. My vibrant, gold-flecked donut sat inches away from his humble, dark wrapped triangle. The contrast was ridiculous. It looked like a crown sitting next to a stone.
She took a photo of both. Then, she picked up a pair of chopsticks.
She tried mine first. I held my breath. She chewed slowly, her face unreadable. She took a sip of tea, then reached for Osamuâs onigiri, picking it up with her hands as tradition dictated. She took a bite. The crunch of the seaweed was loud in the silent alley.
She set the remaining half down and stood up.
"Innovation," she said, looking at me. "And Tradition," she said, looking at Osamu. "Both are easy to do. But neither of you is doing the hard part."
"The hard part?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly.
"Balance," she said, tucking her notebook away. "Your donut is a visual triumph, but it lacks the grounded soul of a staple. His onigiri is a technical triumph, but it lacks the spark of the new world. Youâre two halves of a whole, and yet youâre wasting your energy fighting over a sidewalk."
She turned and began walking back toward her car.
"Wait!" I shouted. "Whatâs the review going to say?"
She paused, looking back over her shoulder with a sharp smile. "The review will say that Alley 4 is the most frustrating place in the city. Because the best meal I never had is the one where you two finally stop acting like children and put your plates together."
The car door slammed. The town car purred to life and disappeared around the corner.
I stood there, staring at the half-eaten food on the table. The silence between me and Osamu was heavy. The "war" suddenly felt very small and very stupid.
"She's a real piece of work," Osamu muttered, though he didn't sound angry. He sounded thoughtful.
"She called my art a gimmick," I said, feeling the sting of the critique.
"She called my food boring," he replied, looking down at his onigiri.
I looked at his plate, then at mine. Without really thinking about it, I picked up a piece of the tuna from my donut and placed it on top of his remaining onigiri. Then, I took a bit of his spicy cod roe and smeared it onto the rice of my donut.
"What are you doing?" he asked, watching me.
"Testing a theory." I took a bite of the modified donut. The spicy, salty kick of his filling cut through the richness of my truffle soy perfectly. It was... incredible.
I handed him the piece of tuna-topped rice. He took it, looking skeptical, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed, his eyes widening just a fraction. He stood there for a long time, looking at the brick wall of my shop.
"It needs more salt," he said finally.
"It needs more color," I countered.
He looked at me, and for the first time, the sleepy look was gone. There was a spark in his eyes a challenge that wasn't about hate, but about something else.
"My kitchen has a better steamer," he said, nodding toward his door. "And your kitchen has that weird flash-freezer thing."
"It's an ultra-chill blast freezer, Osamu."
"Whatever. Bring your tuna." He turned and headed toward his shop, holding the door open with his foot. He didn't look back, but he didn't close it either. "We have three hours until the dinner rush. If weâre going to make something 'balanced,' weâre already behind schedule."
I felt a grin spreading across my face. I grabbed my tray and my tweezers, heart racing for a completely different reason now.
"Move your chalkboard, Miya!" I called out, jogging toward his door. "We're going to need the space."
As I stepped into the clean, white interior of Onigiri Miya, the war wasn't over. It was just changing shape. And as Osamu handed me a clean apron a dark one, just like his I realized that Sato was right. The alley was frustrating. But for the first time in three weeks, I wasn't fighting for survival. I was fighting for something much more interesting.
@kikikittykis @littlemissfix-itfic
