12

Aoi’s house wasn’t far from the station. I’d been here a few times before, usually when she wanted to test a new recipe or when Daiki and I got roped into being taste-testers.

From the outside, it looked like every other two-story house on the block, but the inside was always the same — spotless, quiet, and a little too big for just one person. Her parents both worked long hours, so the place felt empty more often than not.

Maybe that’s why Aoi had gotten so good at cooking. When the only company you had was a kitchen, you learned how to make the best of it.

The three of us settled around the dining table, notebooks and pens laid out like we were planning a bank heist instead of a festival menu. Aoi had already tied her hair back, serious mode activated.

“Alright,” she said, tapping her pen against the notebook. “Before we brainstorm, let’s start simple. What’s everyone’s favorite food?”

“Straight into the interrogation, huh,” I muttered.

“Of course. Knowing what you love tells me what kind of flavors you’ll work best with.”

She looked at me expectantly, but answered first herself.

“I like sashimi,” she said. “It’s simple, clean, but every slice matters. If you do it right, it’s perfect. If you do it wrong, it falls apart.”

I nodded. That sounded like her.

“My turn?” I asked.

“Go ahead.”

“Okonomiyaki,” I said without hesitation. “The way everything comes together on one plate — batter, cabbage, pork, sauce. It’s messy but balanced. I like that.”

Aoi scribbled something down, nodding. Then both of us turned to the quiet figure sitting across the table.

Takumi.

He’d barely said a word since we got here, his posture the same steady wall it always was. Still, under both our stares, he finally spoke.

“…Ramen.”

Aoi blinked. “Ramen? Like… instant ramen?”

Takumi shrugged. “Instant. Fresh. Doesn’t matter. Ramen’s ramen.”

Aoi and I exchanged a glance.

The same thought hit both of us at once.

This was it. Our menu.

Aoi leaned forward, eyes lighting up. “Ramen at a school event, huh… actually, that could work.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you just say sashimi a minute ago?”

“That was my favorite,” she said, wagging her pen at me. “Not a festival menu. Ramen makes more sense. Everyone loves it, and it’s filling.”

“Problem is time,” I said. “Bowls take a while.”

“Not if we make smaller servings,” she replied. “Half portions. Quick to eat, easy to serve.”

Takumi gave a small nod. “And toppings. People choose what they want. That way we don’t waste time making every bowl the same.”

Aoi scribbled fast into her notebook. “Exactly. Broth prepared ahead of time, toppings prepped, noodles cooked quick. We can set up like a stall.”

“Who does what though?” I asked.

She tapped the pen against her lips thoughtfully, then pointed it straight at herself. “I’ll handle the actual cooking. Soup, seasoning, tasting — all of that’s on me.”

That much was obvious.

Then she turned toward Takumi. “You’re my prep assistant. Washing, slicing, boiling eggs, keeping everything ready.”

He didn’t flinch, just nodded. “Fine. That’s straightforward.”

“And you, Kaito,” she said, shifting her gaze to me with a mischievous smile.

“…What?”

“You’ll be the runner. Handing out bowls, greeting people, talking to customers. You’re better at that than either of us.”

“Am I though?”

“Yes,” she said firmly.

“Not really convinced,” I muttered.

Takumi’s mouth twitched like he was holding back a laugh, which was almost scarier than if he’d actually smiled.

Aoi snapped her notebook shut with a decisive clap. “Alright. Talking’s over. Let’s move to the kitchen.”

Takumi and I exchanged a glance, but we followed her without complaint.

The kitchen was exactly what I remembered — wide, polished counters, a gas stove that gleamed like it had been scrubbed that morning, and a big window above the sink that let in soft afternoon light. It wasn’t flashy, but it was practical. You could tell someone actually used it.

“This is where the magic happens,” Aoi said with a little grin, tying her hair back tighter. She moved with practiced ease, pulling a large pot from the cabinet and setting it on the stove. “First batch of ramen, here we go. Let’s see if we can actually pull this off.”

She turned to us, already in command. “We’re going simple today: shoyu broth. We’ll need soy sauce, chicken stock, garlic, ginger, scallions, eggs, and noodles. Thankfully, I have everything here.”

I blinked. “You just keep all that at home?”

“Of course,” she said matter-of-factly. “What if inspiration strikes?”

She pointed toward the pantry. “Kaito, grab the soy sauce and stock packets. Takumi, check the fridge for eggs and scallions. Garlic and ginger are in the basket on the counter.”

“Yes, Chef,” I muttered, heading for the pantry.

The shelves were stacked neatly with bottled sauces, bags of flour, dried noodles, and spices in labeled jars. It was the kind of organization I’d only ever seen in TV dramas. I grabbed the soy sauce and a couple of stock packets, tucking them under my arm.

Behind me, I heard Takumi open the fridge. “Eggs. Scallions.” His voice was calm, like he was reporting in. He placed them gently on the counter, along with a bundle of greens.

Meanwhile, Aoi was already filling the pot with water, her movements quick and sure. The stove clicked to life, the flame glowing blue beneath the pot.

“Once the water’s boiling, we’ll add the stock and seasonings,” she said, rolling up her sleeves. “Kaito, wash the scallions. Takumi, start peeling the garlic.”

I set the bottles down and headed to the sink, rinsing the scallions under cold water. The scent of fresh greens mixed with the sharp edge of raw garlic as Takumi set to work beside me, silent and precise.

The kitchen hummed with a kind of rhythm — water boiling, knives tapping against cutting boards, the faint sizzle of oil heating in a pan. It wasn’t anything grand, but it felt… alive.

To Be Continued