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⋆˚࿔ 🍙 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
The light filtering through my bedroom curtains was soft and golden, casting long, lazy beams across the sheets. I stirred under the covers, stretching slowly as the events from last night drifted through my mind like smoke—warm, delicate, and still a little dizzying.
I turned over, reaching across the bed—but the space beside me was empty. Cool.
Blinking, I sat up and rubbed my eyes. "Osamu?" I called softly, my voice rough with sleep.
Silence.
I slipped out of bed, pulling on a sweatshirt over my tank top and headed quietly down the hallway. The house was calm, sunlight pouring through the windows, birds chirping distantly outside. As I neared the stairs, the faintest clatter and low hum of activity reached my ears.
I smiled.
Padding into the kitchen, I stopped at the doorway.
Osamu stood at the counter, back to me, wearing those sweatpants from last night and nothing else. His hair was slightly messy, towel-dried and fluffy, and he was focused on a pan in front of him. Something sizzled—eggs, maybe—and there was a stack of toast on a plate nearby. A mug of coffee sat beside him, untouched.
I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him for a moment.
"You always cook shirtless for your sleepovers?" I teased gently, voice low and amused.
He turned, startled—then grinned when he saw me. "Only when the host looks like you do in the morning."
I rolled my eyes and walked in, stealing a piece of toast off the plate. "You didn't have to make breakfast, you know."
He shrugged. "You let me stay the night. Least I could do."
I stood beside him now, watching how easily he moved in the kitchen. There was something intimate about the simplicity of it—Osamu barefoot, humming under his breath, making breakfast like it was something he did every Sunday.
"Still," I said softly, brushing his arm with my fingers, "it's really sweet."
He looked over at me, smile soft now. "You hungry?"
"Only if I get to steal more of your toast."
Osamu leaned down and kissed my forehead. "Take the whole plate, princess."
I grinned, cheeks warming as I reached for another slice. "Careful. I might get used to this."
He chuckled, flipping the eggs in the pan. "That a threat or a promise?"
"Depends," I murmured, nibbling the corner of the toast. "You planning on doing this every weekend?"
He glanced at me with that quiet, familiar fondness—the kind that said he was already thinking about it. "Wouldn't mind."
