Miya Osamu is admittedly more anxious than usual to be in the kitchen. Nothing has really changed; it is still the same kitchen in his house, and he didn't hit his head somewhere and completely forget how to cook. The only reason why his heart is beating a little faster than normal is because his girlfriend is finally there with him in person, rather than behind a screen, and your presence is proving a little bit more difficult to deal with than he thought. Not only does the space feel different to physically have you there, but there is also the status of a romantic relationship between you two that is constantly on his mind.
To his credit, though, his anxiety isn't obvious. Maybe because cooking has usually been a way to relieve stress, things go smoothly despite his troubled thoughts, which eventually shift from ‘I hope things don't feel too awkward for her’ to focusing mainly on his task at hand: baking something you'd find delicious on a warm, breezy Saturday.
On the other hand, you are calmly seated on the edge of the kitchen island counter, quietly watching him work. Usually, over the phone, you'd be talking or he'd be verbally explaining things while he works, but today he doesn't even bother to tell you what the ingredients are and strongly refuses your help in the kitchen. He almost looks so insulted and appalled that your ego is hurt, and you wonder why you even asked.
Apparently, you've become the kind of girlfriend that is better off just sitting still to watch while he does all the work, rather than risk even the slightest involvement from you.
Your betrayed eyes glare at his back from where you sit quietly.
‘I mean, it's not like offering to wash the fruits will result in turning them all to mush or ruining their taste. I know how to wash fruits. Seriously, confess you may or may not have made something bad enough to disturb the digestive system, and suddenly you're a high-risk subject that shouldn't even be allowed to touch a utensil.’
The glare in your eyes is slowly losing its intensity the more you watch him work. Rather than learning visually, though, you are too busy admiring him visually.
‘The obsession some people have with seeing their partners in an apron—I think I get it now. The duality is impressive. To look good in an athletic uniform and still look good in a cute apron such as that. Is he making a snack, or is he the snack?’
The thought subconsciously pulls up the corners of your lips, which you quickly hide as he moves over to the other side of the kitchen to place the washed fruits in a draining basket.
Earlier, you briefly considered what he was making and eventually gave up on guessing to just ask him instead. Apparently, he isn't just baking Shokupan (milk bread); that is just meant to be an ingredient in the main dish, a Fruit Sando, which explains the variety of fruits.
Did you watch the process closely firsthand? Yes.
Will you be able to recreate the whole thing to at least 50% on your own? Definitely not.
You might not be able to go through the very process you watched yourself, but you do know something just as important as remembering the recipe.
And that important thing is how good your boyfriend is at kneading dough. Especially with his sleeves rolled up, exposing his strong forearms, veins, and large yet surprisingly gentle hands. Which is harder to pull off: a perfect spike or a perfectly kneaded dough? And which one is responsible for—and to receive your gratitude for—the level of careful control in those hands despite the strength behind them?
Yeah, you can't make bread from scratch, but what does that matter when you can watch your hot boyfriend make it from scratch, and for free, too?
The familiar voice interrupts your thoughts, snapping your attention to the person standing at the sink but now facing you, his calm grey eyes patiently watching you for who knows how long.
You quickly clear your throat, wiping the wide grin—which you didn't even know was there—off your face.
“I was just thinking about how lucky I am to get to learn this in person, and how excited I am to try making it on my own later as well.”
Miya Osamu narrows his eyes across at the one sitting on his kitchen island, his head slightly tilting to the side, calmly matching you as you purposely mirror the head tilt.
“Well, if you ever do, please refrain from bringing any to me,” he remarks bluntly, walking off to the oven to check up on the baking Shokupan, completely aware of your wounded ego.
“Hey, Samu, most guys would be so grateful and happy to have their girlfriend cook or bake something for them, you know,” you fiercely defend yourself, straightening your spine and head while your eyes follow him with a cold glare, arms crossed in front of you.
“Well, most guys would survive their girlfriend's cooking and not end up in an ICU,” he answers, lowering himself to check on the timer and temperature of the oven. “I love you, Y/n, but I'm not the biggest fan of diarrhea.”
“That was one time!” you snap back from where you sit, triggering a hidden smile on his face as he stands back up to his feet, brushing off the grin before turning back to face you.
“Exactly. The rest of your destructive potential has not fully been discovered. Who knows how much more damage you're capable of. I take food very seriously, you know.”
“Yeah? Well, I had no idea,” you snap back with dripping sarcasm, turning your head away with your arms even more tightly crossed, a permanent scowl etched on your face.
‘Just because he has the talent doesn't mean he should rub it in the faces of those who don't. It's ridiculous. Ego must run in the Miya family bloodline. There's Samu with his cooking, and then there's Sumu with being a setter. Like the rest of us don't have something impressive that we're good at. Hmph.’
A crossed, thoughtful expression momentarily interrupts your scowling as you replay what he just said in your head.
A funny sensation fills your stomach as you replay it again, confirming you didn't mishear things.
‘Love? Not like?’ You keep your head fixed on the floor rather than turning back to face him. Usually, Osamu expresses his feelings with actions better than words, and even with words, it has always been “like,” not “love.” It's not like you yourself think the distinction between the two words is something incredibly important; after all, you've never used the word “love” yourself. But he just did, and to think he just did so casually while taking a jab at something that would have possibly ensured you'd die single if you were born in a different time.
The funny feeling in your stomach grows heavier the more you think about it.
“I love you, Y/n, but I'm not the biggest fan of diarrhea.”
It is insulting and yet flattering at the same time, and it won't stop repeating itself in your head. It fell so naturally from his lips. Not like something he planned to confess, but more like something he has always known—like something he has always let you know, too. He didn't even falter or get awkward after saying it.
Does he not realize what he said? Or, more likely, is he aware but doesn't think too much of it? Because he has been showing it all this time in his actions, but maybe you are the one who didn't think too much of it?
“I love you, Y/n, but I'm not the biggest fan of diarrhea.”
‘His foul tongue will be the end of him one day. He has no idea how lucky he is that he has me to tolerate him as he is… How annoying.’
The back of your neck feels much warmer than it previously did. It is uncomfortable. The idiot isn't even flirting with you, and yet you are this affected. Usually, you are the one most comfortable with sharing your feelings, but since when did the tables turn without your awareness?
Your heart skips a startled beat as he suddenly appears in front of you.
“Besides, why would I need you to make something for me when I can just make something for you instead?” he asks seriously, placing either hand on the counter by your thighs and leaning forward to bring his height closer to yours.
It is rare for you not to have something to say back, but at this point, all you can think about is how handsome his face is up close, how closely his eyes are tracking yours, the serious tone of his voice, and the light, fluffy, sweet aroma of baking milk bread hanging on his clothes.
“I love you, Y/n, but I'm not the biggest fan of diarrhea.”
Miya Osamu lightly raises his left eyebrow at your face.
‘It’s very rare for her to have nothing to say. Is she hungry or angry now?’
But before he can open his mouth to speak, you finally snap back at him, your eyebrows drawing inward tightly enough for a light wrinkle to appear on your forehead.
He spends a moment blankly staring at you, considering the idea in his head before coming to a clear verdict that sparks an amused chuckle from him. It only ignites your annoyance further with how much it feels like you are the one being laughed at.
“You don't need my cooking?”
“I don't need it. I never did,” you answer quickly without missing a beat.
“Maybe that would be believable many months ago, but not anymore. Not when I've successfully seduced you into becoming my girlfriend with food. I always knew you were going to forever be a terrible student, by the way.”
Your jaw clenches lightly as you glare up at his face.
“You sound so confident.”
“I have you eating out of the palm of my hand, Y/n.”
“I could find someone else who cooks as well as you do, though,” you answer back, readily waiting for his response. The crease on your forehead flattens out when you see the clouding that quickly deepens on his face.
You subconsciously hold your breath, waiting for what he has to say, but his face suddenly goes blank before he takes his hands off the counter and returns to the oven.
‘What the hell? He's always so quick with his insults but so slow and annoyingly withdrawn with other things. It was just a joke. He does have me eating out of his hands, I was just trying to get under his skin as payback. Did he take it seriously?’
Miya Osamu can feel the quietness between them, but unlike the comfortable one from earlier, this feels heavier. It still doesn't physically disturb him from his work as he puts on the oven mitts before sliding the door open, filling the kitchen with the sweet, sweet aroma of the freshly baked bread.
It is easy to tell he is thinking about something from his face, but it is hard to tell what he is thinking about exactly.
‘She’s so cute and so annoying. Find someone as good as me? Where's she going to find someone like that?…’
He carefully checks the soft bread, confirming it is thoroughly baked, before he waits for it to cool. He moves on to the washed and drained fruits with a knife and chopping board to slice them into pieces.
‘Well, I guess if she puts her mind to it, she could. It's not like I'm irreplaceable; mostly everyone is. But… It's not the same for me. I don't think I could ever find a replacement for her… nor do I want to.’
The sharp sounds of his knife quickly cutting through the fruits keep you on edge, paired with his heavy silence. While admiring the movement of his back muscles as he works through the fruits, guilt eats at you from the inside.
Not guilt from what you said, but guilt from how quickly you'll have to take back your words thanks to the fact that you're already drooling over the bread.
Of course, you aren't exactly ignoring his silence, but at this point, you've finally realized—much like Atsumu—that it is best to leave Osamu alone whenever he is brooding about something in silence. If he is angry, he'll verbally express it, and if he is hurt, he will stop whatever he is doing to be alone.
‘He’s quiet, but still working, so what he's thinking about can't be that serious, right?’
Apparently, you have to take back your words when, minutes later, your boyfriend is personally feeding you the first cut of the fruit sandwich—a perfect square piece on a plate in his left hand and a fork in his right while he stands between your legs.
You hesitate, suspicious of his actions despite your earlier statement, but you can't resist reaching for the piece on the fork. His eyes carefully watch the expression of delight on your face as your taste buds dance in heavenly delight.
He grabs another piece with the fork, bringing it to your mouth where you take that as well, gently murmuring in approval. He waits until you swallow the second bite before he poses the question, carefully setting aside the plate and fork beside you on the counter.
“It's great,” you answer cheerfully, but that draws a subtle frown from him.
“You always think everything I make is great. Here, I'll just check it myself.”
He quickly swipes off leftover whipped cream from the fork with his index finger, painting it over your lips before drawing his head down to taste it off them.
His left hand slides to the back of your head, gently helping you keep your balance, guiding and keeping your head up as he greedily licks the cream off your lips, but he doesn't stop there. His lips part yours open to slide his tongue in.
Your right hand blindly reaches up to his shirt to grab it, your left hand gripping the edge of the counter as well to keep yourself stable as he slips his tongue further in, thoroughly rolling and intertwining it with yours, determined to taste every inch of his pastry in your mouth.
A light gasp leaves your chest as he breaks the kiss. Your widened eyes snap open to meet his clear grey ones. You softly part your lips, your right hand still clutching his shirt.
“It’s great. Feed me more.”
A pleased thrill runs down Osamu's spine, settling in his abdomen as he cuts off another piece with the fork and brings it to your lips.
‘I’m hungry, too,’ he mentally complains as he watches you enjoy the third bite. Unfortunately, you don't get to finish savoring the third bite like you did with the second before he brings his lips down on yours again.
His lips possessively hang on to yours, his tongue heavy and greedy as it brushes against every inch of your mouth. Even his hand behind your head is much firmer in its grasp.
Your suspicion was correct: he has been showing more than just "like" all this time, albeit with his actions. Every food he makes, even every lace he ties, every kiss he takes—you had just gotten so used to it that the change naturally slipped past your radar until now.
Your boyfriend is much simpler to read than he appears to be. Even now, as he breaks the kiss once more, keeping his forehead against yours, his breathing in sync with yours and his eyes firmly locked in, he asks in a lower, smoother voice:
It is difficult to hide your smile while you ponder what exactly he is asking about—if you want more of the pastry, or if he's just greedily asking for more taste of you.
