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Osamu, whose footsteps you can just barely hear above the pouring rain insistently tapping against your window. It’s been raining heavily, all you can see outside the kitchen window as you gently stir the contents of the pot are dark roads dimly lit by the soft glow of yellow street lights. His keys jingle against the door as he shuffles in and leaves his belongings next to the shoe rack, completely soaked.
“Tadaima” he says, voice weary from a full day of running his onigiri shop. Of chopping, simmering, frying, and mixing carefully sourced ingredients to mold into warm balls of fluffy rice. He’s had a long day. He doesn’t need to say it, you know.
“Welcome home.” you feel him walking towards you, suddenly finding yourself enveloped in his presence. He sighs into your shoulder as you turn to face him.
“You’re wet, ‘Samu.” you gently chastise him with a soft chuckle as his face remains buried into your shoulder, strong arms still wrapped around your waist.
“You’re warm” he mutters, lifting his head to look down at you. He’s paler than usual with dark circles under his eyes. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he looks intimidating. But you do, you’ve known him for what feels like decades.
“What’re ya lookin’ at?” he smiles gently and his eyes crinkle. It seems like for each year that passes, the more the crinkles by his eyes deepen. It was one of his insecurities he told you about a couple years ago, on a rainy night like this as you were curled up next to him on the couch. “Makes me feel like I’m gettin’ old.” You simply told him it was a good thing, that it meant he grew happier each year through his achievements as a business owner, as a chef, a brother, a son, a friend to many, and being your partner. Though he probably doesn’t think that on nights like this.
Still, there’s a softness in how he treats you despite his exhaustion. By the time you’re done reminiscing, he’s turned the stove off and put the lid on.
“You’re not hungry?” you ask, to which he shakes his head.
“‘M tired.” he sighs, still not letting go of you. You nod into his chest and return the hug, arms slipping under his as your hands find their way to his sturdy back.
“Okay” you say, the two of you staying like that. You’re sure there’s a small puddle on the floor and you’ll have to take a warm shower considering his wetness from the rain has soaked into your clothes by now, but you let him hold you. The kitchen light flickers. You stay there. It’s warm.
You never expected to cross paths again with the boy you met in high school. The two of you didn’t have a chance to speak back then, he had always been busy training with his brother and volleyball team while you were focused on your own activities. But one night, you took shelter in an onigiri shop, not knowing it was his. You hug him tighter, grateful that you met again.
He smells like his onigiri shop, the scent of fresh rice he’s steamed and stirred and shaped with calloused hands. There’s a faint whiff of clean musk from the shower he took this morning, and a hint of something else that you can’t quite describe. He smells like home.