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Between some away series games in Anaheim, Kazuya braves the socal traffic to drive up, unannounced, to the duplex in Santa Monica. With a box of Korean fried chicken, and a bouquet of fucking sunflowers.
"Got an Amazon Prime delivery for Narumiya Mei." His teeth flash when he smiles. Mei very nearly slams the door shut back into his face. "I hear he's the best two-way player this league has ever seen since the great Sho-time Ohtani."
"You've got a lot of nerve to come crawling back here, Mr. Delivery Driver," says Mei. "You tripped over and broke my lamp the last time you were here. Bet you don't even remember." The lamp had been his favorite, though it's not even the first valued possession of his that Miyuki Kazuya has broken.
Like any respectable asshole, Kazuya ignores the meaning of words that he doesn't want to understand. "C'mon, Mei. You gonna make me stand here all night?"
Nothing subtle about this at all, Mei thinks, as he takes one step back. But that's evidently how they both like it. He'll need a vase for these sunflowers. It would probably take a week or so before they start to wilt.