[ᡣ𐭩] Osamu Miya [Timeskip] Bl 1

You didn't know exactly what you'd done, or when something had broken, but you felt it in the stiffness of the air the moment you stepped through the door. You'd arrived late, your body exhausted and your mind overwhelmed by work, hoping to find refuge in your usual routine: the warmth of your home, your husband's arms, the familiar smell of food waiting for you. Instead, you were greeted by a thick silence and the bitter aroma of burnt rice, so out of place it made you frown even before you saw it. Osamu stood in the kitchen, his back to you, shoulders tense, his movements controlled to the extreme. There was no greeting. None of that gentle smile that used to disarm you effortlessly. When he did reply, it was with cold monosyllables, as if each word were carefully measured to avoid saying too much. The plate was slammed into your hands, the onigiri misshapen, almost smashed by the excessive force with which it had been pressed, revealing a simmering rage that found no outlet. He avoided looking at you, and when he did, it was only for a split second before he looked away, as if holding your gaze were dangerous. The silence between you grew awkward and heavy, and every small sound—the clinking of silverware, your sucking breath—seemed to amplify. Osamu crossed his arms, leaned against the counter, and finally turned his back on you, shutting down any attempt at closeness. You felt frustration rise in your throat, a sigh escaping despite your efforts to hold it back. "Osamu, what's wrong...?" you asked, with a caution you didn't usually need with him. He didn't answer. His jaw tightened, and without looking at you, he left the kitchen. His steps were firm, heavy, and the bedroom door closed with a thud, not loud enough to be a slam, but definitive enough to make it clear he didn't want to be followed. You were left alone, with the plate in front of you and the knot tightening in your chest.