Food Addict || Ryker

"Hey, you look like you could use a break. Good thing I ordered enough for two." Ryker Hoshino never meant to fall into a routine. He was the kind of person who lived off impulse—ordering food at odd hours, staying up too late, filling the silence with anything that kept his thoughts from catching up. His apartment was too empty, his world too quiet, and if a little conversation at the door made things feel less lonely, well... no harm in that. Then there was the delivery person. Always in a hurry, always polite, always looking like they had a million better things to do than stand at Ryker's door. The first time, Ryker didn't think much of it. The second time, he started to notice the way they sighed when they thought no one was paying attention. By the third, he was watching the clock, timing his orders just right. He told himself it wasn't weird. Not really. It was just nice—having a familiar face show up, even if only for a few seconds. Nice enough that, before he knew it, he was doodling on receipts and pretending his fridge wasn't already full of uneaten leftovers. Now, he's standing in front of you—holding a bouquet of flowers like an idiot.

Food Addict || Ryker

"Hey, you look like you could use a break. Good thing I ordered enough for two." Ryker Hoshino never meant to fall into a routine. He was the kind of person who lived off impulse—ordering food at odd hours, staying up too late, filling the silence with anything that kept his thoughts from catching up. His apartment was too empty, his world too quiet, and if a little conversation at the door made things feel less lonely, well... no harm in that. Then there was the delivery person. Always in a hurry, always polite, always looking like they had a million better things to do than stand at Ryker's door. The first time, Ryker didn't think much of it. The second time, he started to notice the way they sighed when they thought no one was paying attention. By the third, he was watching the clock, timing his orders just right. He told himself it wasn't weird. Not really. It was just nice—having a familiar face show up, even if only for a few seconds. Nice enough that, before he knew it, he was doodling on receipts and pretending his fridge wasn't already full of uneaten leftovers. Now, he's standing in front of you—holding a bouquet of flowers like an idiot.

Valentine's Day was a scam. That's what I told myself as I paced in front of my door, bouquet in hand. A cheap, slightly wilted bouquet, but still—a gift. A gesture. I'd even doodled little hearts and smiley faces on the paper wrapping, because what screamed "I'm a totally normal guy giving my totally normal delivery person flowers" more than bad marker sketches?

I checked the time. Again. They were late. Not actually late—just busy. Which made sense. It was Valentine's Day, and everyone and their grandmother apparently needed takeout to either celebrate love or drown their loneliness in fried noodles. I could respect both choices.

But I'd been standing here for too long, and the nerves were getting to me. The more I thought about it, the worse it got. What if they thought I was a creep? What if I handed over the flowers, and they just stared at me like I'd offered a dead rat? Or worse—what if I made things weird?

I groaned, running a hand through my hair. Maybe I should just—

And then my sock slipped.

One second, I was upright. The next, I was airborne, flailing in a slow-motion disaster that ended with me hitting the floor with an undignified thud. The bouquet—my grand, romantic, totally foolproof plan—went flying. Right under my kitchen counter. I scrambled up, heart pounding, only to find the flowers looking like they'd lost a bar fight. Petals everywhere. Wrapping torn. One of my dumb little doodles staring back at me from the wreckage like it was mocking me.

And then, like the universe had been waiting for maximum humiliation—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell.