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The first time Osamu’s best customer walked in the door, he didn’t realize it. Holed up in his basement office, he balanced the books as she sent the kitchen in a tizzy with her back-to-back orders.
The second time, he helped prep her order himself, mostly because his newest part-timer Sana was on the verge of tears. As they worked on the large order, she grumbled to herself about the shape of her onigiri. Osamu looked over; while they weren’t the most even, they weren’t terrible.
“I’m sure they’ll all love ‘em,” he reassured her.
“She. It’s, um. For one customer.”
As Osamu reached for a sheet of seaweed, he raised an eyebrow.
“All of it? These to go?”
Sana shook her head. “For here. And this is round 1, she says.”
“...Y’know what? Go ahead and help Horie on prep. I’ll finish up here and serve ‘em up.” He gave Sana a gentle, encouraging nudge with his elbow. “And hey, good work.”
Someone planned to eat four salmon and two umeboshi onigiri in one go? As a starter? Now this, he had to see.
As she waited for her food, Yukie thumbed through one of her sports nutrition textbooks, nodding along to a song in her head. When she saw her order—and the person carrying it—her mouth formed an O of surprise. As excited as she was for her food, her eyes were fixed on his face, not the plate in his hands.
“It’s you!”
Usually that was the part where Osamu said no, his brother’s the pro athlete, but before he could, Yukie continued.
“Bokuto told me about you. You’re the owner? The one who makes great onigiri? I mean it’s all good, but he says yours are extra good?”
Her compliment, her slow drawl, and the way her voice lilted as if asking a question made the corners of Osamu’s mouth quirk up in a lopsided smile.
“Did he now? Tell him I said thanks.”
“Did you make these yourself?” she asked, drawing a circle in the air around the plate, practically overflowing with food.
“I helped.”
“Ooh, which ones are yours?” When set the plate down, she leaned in so far over the table that her hair almost brushed his arms. He pointed them out, and she scooped up one in each hand.
“Don’t mind if I dooo,” she sang before eating half of one in a single bite.
Osamu let out a low whistle in admiration.
“I hear this is round one?”
Yukie nodded, already starting in on her second one. He couldn’t help but watch, which was just as well, because she was in such bliss that she didn’t notice him staring in awe.
The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth times that Osamu’s best customer walked through the door, he took charge of her orders from start to finish. After serving her, he’d pull up a chair to chat and watch as she ate with visible satisfaction.
She was his favorite kind of customer, the kind who savored their food and didn’t try to hide it. It didn’t hurt that she was funny, too. And smart. And easy on the eyes. And she had a voice like a song. He groaned to himself as that last thought invaded his mind one day in the office, burying his face in his hands.
Yukie wasn’t complaining about the extra attention, either. In fact, even if the food wasn’t all that great—and it was—she’d have dropped by anyway for the owner. During lectures and walks around campus, she found herself daydreaming about their food chats, his low laugh, and his strong forearms. While she usually loved dining with friends, she always chose to visit Onigiri Miya alone. So she could study in peace, of course. No other reason.
During her visits, they traded stories and loving complaints about the volleyball idiots in their lives. Osamu always asked what the health benefits were for her onigiri fillings of choice, and she would rattle them off with pride. And she always made sure to tell him how great his food was.
The seventh time Osamu’s best customer walked through the door, he was prepared.
On that day he didn’t need to be there at all, only swinging by to drop off some supplies—but he could never leave the place without a once-over. When he saw Sana loading up an already-full plate, his thoughts jumped to one customer in particular. Peeking out at the front of the house, he didn’t even pretend to scan the rest of the tables, zeroing in on Yukie’s usual seat—and there she was, buried in a textbook, an empty plate already in front of her.
When she saw Osamu approach her table, she popped a bookmark in the textbook before waving at him. Instead of pulling up a chair backwards like he usually did, this time he remained standing, leaning in over her table.
“Got a quick question,” he whispered dramatically. “D’you have room for dessert?”
She joined in on the bit, leaning in just as close and cupping one hand around her mouth.
“Um, always?”
“Then wait right there.” He walked backwards so he could face her for as long as he could, but a run-in with a table corner forced him to turn around. As he ducked into the kitchen, she made a mental note:
His ears go red when he’s embarrassed. Cuuute.
Osamu soon returned with a picture-perfect bowl of anmitsu "on the house", piled high with brightly colored sliced fruits, a scoop of matcha ice cream nestled in the center. As he set it down, she clapped in delight, thanking him half a dozen times.
“I should, uh. Get back to it." Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, Osamu took one hesitant step back, then paused. Hastily, he dug his hand into his pocket, slipped a card beside the dish—a card he'd written on days before. Then, with one last sheepish wave, he disappeared into the back. Yukie waved at his back before reaching for her spoon.
That’s when she realized he'd placed the card face down. The side that should have been blank had a name and a phone number handwritten in a hasty scribble.