A/N:
I find it fascinating that guys like Miyamura knows how to bake a cake. A cake! Do you know that it's my frustration to bake? Even though Miyamura is good in baking, his everyday kitchen skills are still lacking. But still, he could be a chef. And if he ever gets married, his wife will get plump, from all the goodies he creates.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my ramblings here.
To give or not to give? That is the question
Izumi felt ridiculous clutching a bag of brownies. Suffering from a particularly nasty episode of insomnia last night, he was listening to Maksim while prancing around inside the kitchen of his apartment, wearing his skull-inspired apron and baking goddamed brownies at 4 am in the morning.
Feeling stalkerish, he shook his head again and left the bag of goodies on the wooden bench along with a red rose before taking his spot behind a large oak tree.
Presently, he heard soft huffing sounds. He could see her wearing black shorts and a white stretchy top, running in a comfortable pace. Already, sweat made her shirt clung to her body like second skin. As soon as she neared the bench, she eyed the things he left and she paused to take a closer look.
He held his breath when she took the rose, smelled its fresh, dewy fragrance, eyes closing for a moment. Then she tilted her head, a small, doubtful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. And then she turned away, leaving the rose and the pathetic bag of brownies alone.
Izumi wanted to kick himself. You fool! Of course she wouldn't eat something that suspicious! She probably thinks someone poisoned the food. He wanted to bang his head on the tree trunk he was gripping for acting impulsively.
After a few minutes, he lifted his head, about to step out from his hiding place to retrieve his offering, when she heard someone approaching again.
He held still, pressing himself against the tree's bark when he saw Kyoko Hori back again. This time, she was holding a plastic bottle of milk on one hand, unscrewed the cap before sitting down on the empty bench.
The tearing sounds of plastic being crumpled, and the faint scent of chocolate wafted their way towards his hiding place.
Izumi Miyamura spends the next hour sitting at the base of the trunk, smiling satisfactorily to himself while the morning sun's rays, filtered through the leaves, warming his face.
A/N: Let me know what you think.