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Finding a place that serves raw fish I enjoy took what felt like forever.
“What’s next?” he asks.
I consider the box. Part of me wants to finish the sashimi, since it’s my favorite, before the slices have a chance to get warm. But I also want to savor it for longer.
“Teriyaki,” I decide, moving the chopsticks to the next section of the bento.
His hand stays on mine as I close the chopsticks around a piece of teriyaki chicken.
A sweet-salty glaze floods my tongue, the meat so tender it almost melts. As I chew and swallow, Kain waits with the patience of a man who has all night to give before he eats his own meal.
We continue like that, with him helping me with the sashimi and teriyaki part of the bento, and piece by piece, each makes it to my mouth. The warmth of his body surrounds me, adding to the heat from the fireplace.
His scent mixes with the food. Clean skin from a recent shower and the faint, woodsy warmth of his pheromones threading through the smell of teriyaki glaze and warm rice.
Each inhale is full of him, settling deep in my lungs.
When I finish the messier parts of the meal, Kain moves out from behind me and grabs his own order from a bag on the floor. He opens the box to reveal an assortment of nigiri, with little containers of wasabi and pickled ginger tucked along one side.
He mixes wasabi and soy sauce together as I pinch a nori-wrapped rice ball between my fingers and take a bite. The flavor is simple, just seasoned rice with no hidden surprises inside, and I munch on it in contentment.
He uses his chopsticks to pick up a piece of pickled ginger and holds it out to me.
I lean forward, catching it between my lips, and the sharp bite stings my nose. Swallowing, I open my mouth for another, and he chuckles as he pops another vibrant pink morsel onto my tongue.
“Should I get you a side for yourself next time?” he asks, his thumb brushing a drop of juice from my bottom lip.
My tongue sweeps out, licking it from his calloused fingertip. “No, I like sharing.”
His nostrils flare. “So, I should just get myself a bigger order?”
I hum in agreement as I pick up my second rice ball.
We finish eating like that, with Kain giving me more than half of his ginger between bites of my rice and edamame.
Then, he uses his own chopsticks to feed me the cucumber salad from the last section of my bento.
When our boxes are empty aside from a few grains of rice, he loads everything into the delivery bag and sets it on the floor.
His palms come to rest on my thighs, and his thumbs trace small circles against the fabric of my pajama pants. “Better?”
“Yeah,” I say, and mean it.
“Good.” He turns me, the blanket twisting under my ass, until my back is to him. “Arms forward.”
I comply, leaning my forearms on the ottoman, and Kain’s thumbs find the muscle on either side of my spine. They press in, gentle at first before sinking deeper, and I hiss at a piercing jolt of pain.
“Breathe through it,” he murmurs, and his thumbs work the knot, circling, pressing, releasing.
I exhale hard through my nose. The knot gives under his hands, and the muscle softens, chasing away the ache.
He works his way outward from my spine, thumbs tracing the ridge of each shoulder blade before digging into the meat of the trapezius.
I’ve kept my shoulders hunched for weeks, the tension building up through the pre-competition grind and the high-stakes competition.
Kain’s fingers find every tight spot and dismantle it, one by one.
“Fuck,” I mutter into my forearms.
