hello friends!

here's your next chapter...it is ENTIRELY fluff but don't worry! I'm getting to some action in the next chapter. Still, who doesn't love fluff?

I totally planned to put the action in this chapter, but then Tadashi brought Momo Thanksgiving dinner and then Momo taught Tadashi how to use chopsticks and then they had to make ramen and then that took up like half the chapter. It's a really adorable scene, I hope you guys like it :)

I'd love feedback on how I'm doing so far! I know it's been a lot (like a lot) of fluff but I promise it's gonna start getting more epic!

Also let me know how I'm doing on the love triangle! Obakase will have some more scenes soon, I know it's been mostly Momadashi so far but what can I say it's like my favorite ship of pretty much all time :)

Thank you my friends! I really appreciate your feedback and reading!

peace out!

—TADASHI—

Thanksgiving break comes quickly, with school passing oddly fast. Before I know it, I'm walking out of SFIT on the last day before break, overjoyed that I can forget about homework and projects for a week.

I give Momo a little wave as she heads for the train station, and she bestows upon me a small smile in return. That smile makes my heart flutter with joy every time I see it, and I start the walk home feeling lighter than a feather.

A cold gust of wind blows through my hair as I step onto the sidewalk of Main Street, and I shiver, pulling my blazer tighter around my shoulders. This is probably the coldest fall San Fransokyo has seen in years, meaning the winter will be a lot worse.

Rain begins to fall, and I walk faster, watching the drops splash onto the pavement. I absolutely love the rain, but it's really cold—I'd rather not be caught out in it.

Finally, I reach the Lucky Cat, pulling open the door and stepping into the warm, pastry-scented café. I can smell donuts baking, mingling with the scent of the rain.

"Tadashi!" Aunt Cass calls from where she's bustling around the kitchen. "Come over here, sweetie!"

I hasten into the kitchen, hanging my backpack and blazer on a hook and slipping my apron over my head. The timer on an oven beeps, and I snatch the oven mitts off the counter, pulling the batch of donuts out of the oven and setting them on the counter to cool.

Aunt Cass comes over to me and stands on her tiptoes, putting her arms around my waist and kissing my cheek. "How was your day, baby?"

"Great," I tell her, washing my hands in the sink and drying them on a dish towel. "I'm just glad school's out—I'm so done with homework. Is Hiro home yet?"

"He's upstairs," Aunt Cass informs me. "He's probably trying to avoid his shift—honestly, that boy may as well be a sloth for all the work he gets done. Would you go up and get him down here?"

"Of course," I agree. "But don't blame me if I don't come back down for a few hours."

I hurry up the stairs and find Hiro sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He sits up as I come in, and I realize that my little brother has soot smeared all over his face and a Band-Aid on his nose.

"Hiro," I sigh. "What did you do, buddy?"

Hiro grins sheepishly. "I might've blown some stuff up in the garage. Don't worry, I only broke a few things. And they weren't my bones."

"You sure?" I ask worriedly. "What'd you do to your nose?"

He shrugs. "There may or may not have been shrapnel. Seriously, Tadashi, you worry too much! I'm fine!"

I sigh again and go into the bathroom, wetting a washcloth under the faucet and putting a dab of soap on it. "Sure, Hiro, but let me clean up your face. We don't want Aunt Cass seeing you like that—she'll freak out."

Going back over to Hiro's bed, I kneel down next to it and carefully cup Hiro's cheek in my hand, gently wiping the soot off his face. Hiro winces slightly, and I pull back to discover a small abrasion on his soft skin, barely bleeding.

"You've got another scrape," I murmur, reaching into my pocket for my tube of bacitracin. Squirting some onto my finger, I rub it on Hiro's cheek, trying to be as gentle as possible.

"I swear I didn't know that was there," Hiro grumbles, and I smile, then wipe the rest of the soot off his face, relieved to find no other injuries.

"You've gotta get downstairs, Hiro," I tell my brother. "Aunt Cass needs you to work your shift."

"But I don't want to."

I give Hiro my big, pleading eyes. "Please, Hiro? It'd make me and Aunt Cass so happy."

"That doesn't work on me anymore, you know," Hiro points out, but he gets up and follows me down the stairs anyway, slipping his dark purple apron over his head when we reach the bottom.

"Thanks, Tadashi," Aunt Cass says gratefully as we approach. "And Hiro—what have you been doing? What was that noise in the garage?"

"Nothing important," Hiro says breezily. "Some capacitors. It's fine! Everything's fine! What are we baking? Is something burning? It kinda smells like something's burning!"

And he dashes into the kitchen, snatching his do-rag from a hook and tying it over his wild hair. Aunt Cass and I both laugh, following Hiro into the kitchen.

I pull a tray of muffins out of an oven, setting them out to cool and then putting the next batch in. Hiro attempts to use the mixer, but batter splashes everywhere, and I have to take over. This is pretty much what a normal day at the Lucky Cat looks like.

"Let's have you stay out of the kitchen for Thanksgiving, okay, Hiro?" Aunt Cass decides, and Hiro sighs exasperatedly, struggling to knead a loaf of bread dough and failing miserably.

Hiro's tone is sarcastic as he attempts to roll the dough into a ball. "You're probably right—if there's one thing I'm hopeless at, it's baking. Which is surprising, considering I'm good at just about everything else."

I can think of lots of things Hiro isn't good at—baseball, math, flossing—but I don't say them. Hiro's only being snarky, not arrogant. I hate it when people are arrogant.

As I mix batter for yet another batch of muffins, I remember Momo telling me that she's a really good chef—I wonder if she'd like to come work in the Lucky Cat. I'm sure Aunt Cass wouldn't mind.

But I really don't think Aunt Cass would approve of Momo. I mean, I like her a lot, and I'd love to take her on a proper date, but Aunt Cass wants me to find a nice girl to settle down with. Momo isn't exactly what you'd call nice.

Still, Momo is the only girl I want. She's smart and she's spunky and she's so much more than she thinks she is. And I want to help her learn to love—I don't know why she doesn't want to, but I think I can help her try.

I just wish she would tell me why she's so afraid.


Thanksgiving comes a few days later, and I get up early to help Aunt Cass make all the food. I smile as I pass Hiro, curled up under the covers, his wild dark hair spread across the striped pillowcase.

"Morning, Tadashi," Aunt Cass greets me as I enter the kitchen, yawning. "Did you sleep good?"

"Yeah," I reply through another yawn. "What should we start cooking first?"

"The turkey's already in, so if you could start on the mashed potatoes, that'd be great," Aunt Cass requests. "The potatoes are on the counter for peeling, and the milk and butter are in the fridge."

I cross the kitchen to the sink and wash my hands, then pick up a potato and the peeler and begin to scrape the skin off. Hiro won't eat the potatoes if there are any peels in them, so I have to be really careful about getting all of it off.

It takes me a full hour, but I manage to get all the potatoes peeled just as Hiro comes downstairs, his hair even messier than usual as he rubs his eyes.

"Happy Thanksgiving, bro!" I say cheerfully, pulling Hiro into a side hug as he stumbles sleepily over to me. "You ready to eat until your gut explodes?"

"Yep," Hiro mumbles, going over to the couch and collapsing on it, evidently still half-asleep. Aunt Cass smiles and goes to pull a blanket over Hiro's skinny shoulders, allowing him to go back to sleep.

I pour milk into the mashed potatoes and mix butter into them, then put them in an oven to warm up. One advantage of living above a café is that you have a million ovens to cook food in—no waiting for the turkey to be done so you can cook the stuffing.

The day passes in a blur of cranberry sauce mixing and pie baking—lemon meringue, my favorite—and finally, finally, it's time to eat. Eating is one of my favorite things to do, if you didn't know that already.

"Hey, Dashi," Hiro says as we sit down. "You up for an eating contest? I bet I could beat you this year."

I actually laugh. "Hiro, no offense, but you seem to have overlooked the fact that you weigh eighty-five pounds."

"And why does that make a difference?" Hiro retorts. "I have a really fast metabolism! I can burn off food way faster than I eat it—that kinda gives me an advantage."

"But I still have a bigger gut," I argue. "Seriously, I'm pretty sure you'll get gastric rupture before you beat me in any kind of eating contest. It might not be safe, Hiro."

Hiro smirks. "Is that a challenge?"

I sigh. "Fine. But don't blame me if we're driving you to the emergency room later."

As soon as Aunt Cass blesses the food, Hiro and I start. I try not to go too fast, since this is a quantity challenge and not a speed one. Besides, it'd be a crime not to savor Thanksgiving dinner.

About halfway through, I'm already starting to feel pretty full, but Hiro is still going strong, plowing through at least three plates and half a pie. I have to stop after one slice, since my poor gut is practically crying.

"Nice one, Hiro," I gasp, leaning back in my chair. "You win."

"Knew I would," Hiro says smugly. "I'm gonna go throw up now, okay?"

And he hurries up the stairs to the bathroom, the door of which shuts loudly. I try desperately to tune out the splattering noises that follow, knowing that my own stomach isn't gonna react nicely to them. I'd better take some medicine if I don't want to be hunched over the toilet all night.

"Hiro beat you pretty good," Aunt Cass remarks teasingly. "But that's what both of you get for being bottomless pits."

"I don't get it," I groan, clutching my abdomen. "How can Hiro eat that much and still be so skinny? His gut isn't even distended."

Aunt Cass shrugs. "Everyone's bodies are different, I guess. You gonna be okay, baby?"

"Yeah," I reassure her. "But I'm gonna go take some Pepto-Bismol and then lay down. Oh—after I help clean up, I guess. Sorry, Aunt Cass, I forgot about that."

"Don't worry, Tadashi," she says kindly, putting a hand on my shoulder. "You've been cooking all day; you should go rest. I'll get Hiro to help clean up—he's not gonna have anything left in his system, so he should be fine."

I thank Aunt Cass and then stumble upstairs, knocking on the bathroom door. "Hiro, you okay in there? Is it okay if I come in and grab the Pepto-Bismol?"

"I guess," Hiro moans, and the sound of the toilet flushing echoes through the bathroom. I push the door open, glancing at Hiro, who is now leaning against the bathtub, his arms wrapped around his stomach.

I grab the medicine from the cabinet and pour some into the little cup, then hand it to Hiro, who takes it and downs the bright pink liquid in one gulp. I pour another cup for myself and drink it, then bend down and scoop up Hiro, cradling him against my chest.

"What are you doing," Hiro mumbles.

"You should really go lay down," I reply. "Try and rest. It'll help you feel better—and you won't have to help clean up dinner if you're asleep."

I gently place Hiro in his bed and pull the covers over him, then go back downstairs to where Aunt Cass is starting to clean up dinner. Picking up the empty mashed potatoes bowl, I carry it to the sink and turn on the faucet, rinsing it out.

"I thought you were gonna go lay down, sweetie," Aunt Cass says, scrubbing at the turkey pan.

"I was," I tell her. "But Hiro looked like he needed to rest, so I took him to bed. Don't worry, I took some medicine—I should be fine."

Aunt Cass smiles, coming over to me and wrapping an arm around my waist. "Aw, Tadashi, you're so sweet. What did I do to deserve such a wonderful nephew?"

I smile back, not really knowing how to respond but touched by her words. I mean, what did I do to deserve such a good family? Nothing, really—I was simply blessed to be adopted into it.

When the cleaning up is finally done, I drag myself up the stairs to my bedroom. After changing into pajamas, I collapse on my bed, rolling onto my back and resting my hands on my slightly distended stomach.

My phone vibrates, and I pick it up to find a text from Momo—the first time she's ever initiated a texting conversation. This is a big milestone for her—I'm so proud!

I open the text, which reads:

Hello, Tadashi. How was your Thanksgiving?

Texting back as fast as possible, I type:

It was pretty good! But I lost an eating contest with Hiro—it was a terrible idea. I totally just ate myself into a food coma :P

How was your day?

Momo's reply takes an oddly long time to come in, and I start to worry. When it comes in, it's evidently saying more than Momo wants to admit.

Fine, I guess.

Aw, come on, Momo. Are you okay? Did something happen?

I didn't really have Thanksgiving today, she replies. I live by myself, Tadashi. I did not see the point of having Thanksgiving. Please do not pity me—I would prefer to be alone.

If she thinks I'm going to let her get away with that, she clearly doesn't know me well enough.

I'm coming to your house tomorrow. And we're going to have Thanksgiving, okay? No one deserves to be completely alone, Momo. Not even you.

Fine, comes the reply. But you're bringing the food.

Deal! See you tomorrow :)

I put my phone on the nightstand and curl up under the covers, wrapping my arms around my stomach, which thankfully feels a lot better now.

Did I just ask Momo on a date?

No, I decide. Not really. I'm pretty sure I have to say the words "do you want to go on a date" and she has to say yes. We also have to dress up nice and do more than just eat. Plus, I don't plan to ask Momo out until I've worked out and lost my baby fat. Unless that takes forever, which it might. I also plan to get contacts, so I don't have to deal with my glasses.

So yeah. It's not a date.

Still. I'm gonna see Momo tomorrow. And we're gonna be alone. Together.

That's still a victory for me!


The next day, I go to Momo's apartment with a plate of Thanksgiving leftovers. I haven't told Hiro and Aunt Cass where I'm going—or not the whole truth, anyway. I feel bad about not telling them, but Aunt Cass definitely wouldn't approve of Momo and Hiro would never stop teasing me. I just told them I was taking some leftovers to a friend.

I climb the steps to Momo's apartment and ring the doorbell, hoisting a probably-overly-cheerful smile onto my face. When Momo opens the door, she stares at me with a rather bored expression.

"Happy Thanksgiving!" I say happily, holding up the plate of leftovers. "I ate way too much yesterday, so you can have most of this plate. Where do you wanna eat?"

"The couch is sufficient," Momo deadpans. "I suppose you can come in."

I carry the plate inside and look around the apartment. It's small, but it's really pretty—very minimalist, with white walls and dark blue, 3D-printed decorations. Two long graphene blades sit on hooks on the wall, and shorter knives hang from what appears to be a strong magnet in the kitchenette. The couch is navy blue and looks incredibly comfortable, and a dark gray rug sits in the middle of the nearly black hardwood floor.

"Your place is really nice!" I tell Momo.

"It normally isn't," she replies. "But I cleaned it up because I knew you were coming. Shall we sit?"

I carefully put the plastic wrap-covered plate in the middle of the couch, and Momo and I sit on either side of it. Peeling the wrapping off, I gesture for Momo to begin eating. But instead of using the fork and knife I've placed on the plate, she pulls a pair of glowing blue chopsticks and a small graphene blade out of her pocket and starts eating with those.

"You have glowing blue chopsticks," I observe somewhat giddily. "That. Is. Awesome."

"I really thought that wouldn't surprise you by now," Momo replies, sounding amused. "My implements are all the same color. Don't you use chopsticks? We live in San Fransokyo, after all."

"I've tried," I sigh. "But I'm hopeless with them."

Momo actually smiles. "Well, then, perhaps I can teach you. Here."

She gets up and goes to the kitchenette, pulling another set of black chopsticks out of a drawer. Returning to the couch, she hands them to me, gently grabbing my wrist and pulling my hand up.

"I will show you how to hold them," Momo explains. "Try to keep your fingers loose and relaxed—if you grip them too tightly, this will not work."

I try to keep my grip loose, but it's difficult when Momo is touching my hand. The sensation sends waves of adrenaline thrilling through my veins, causing my hand to shake slightly.

Momo gently guides my hand into the necessary shape for holding the chopsticks, showing me how to rest them on my fingers and use them to pick up food. I only drop a few pieces, and I manage to send only one flying across the room. This actually earns a laugh from Momo, unlike almost anything else I do to impress her.

"Do you normally eat with chopsticks?" I ask, struggling to pick up a piece of turkey. "Even when you're not eating Japanese food?"

"Yes, I do," Momo tells me. "I grew up using them—not for sushi, of course, but for most other Japanese dishes, and many American foods as well. I find it to be a more refined way to eat than with your hands."

"I'm pretty unrefined, then," I laugh. "I eat with my hands all the time. But I kind of subsist on pizza and chicken tenders, so I don't really need utensils that often. I've tried to use chopsticks for eating ramen, but it's really hard."

"Noodles can be difficult when you're first starting," Momo agrees. "Perhaps we should practice on those—I think I have had enough of Thanksgiving, haven't you?"

"Definitely," I say adamantly. "I'm really tired of turkey—I only brought it because it's tradition, but I'm totally open to eating other things. It might be more fun to have ramen for Thanksgiving."

"I will prepare ramen for us," Momo decides. "You may wait on the couch while I cook it—it will take about an hour to prepare. Thankfully, I have most of my supplies already prepared—I have ramen for many of my meals. However, it will take a while, so you may as well get comfortable."

"Is there anything I can do?" I ask. "I mean, I love your couch, but I'd really like to help."

"You can begin cooking the noodles," Momo decides. "The box is over there—I wish I could make them from scratch, but unfortunately, I simply do not have the time. I must resort to buying the most authentic boxed noodles possible."

"I'm sure it'll still taste great," I reassure her, taking the box from the counter and filling a large pot with water. "Should I put salt in this?"

"As much as you can stand. I personally prefer the noodles with rather inordinate amounts of salt."

I pour at least a quarter cup of salt into the water, then turn the burner on so it will boil. Carefully, I lower the noodles into the pot, breaking them apart with a wooden spoon.

Momo carefully cuts up some sort of meat with her graphene blades, slicing it into tiny pieces. When that's done, she takes a massive Tupperware of pale brown liquid out of the fridge, pouring some of it into a saucepan and turning the burner on.

"What's that for?" I ask, curious.

"This is called dashi," Momo explains, stirring the liquid with another wooden spoon—I'm pretty sure she has an endless supply of those. "It is the broth in which we will place the ramen. Rather ironic, I think, considering your name."

"Yeah, I noticed," I laugh. "Hiro calls me Dashi sometimes—I didn't know it was actually a Japanese word. I really don't know as much about Japan's culture as I should, considering that I'm half Japanese."

"You were raised in a primarily American restaurant," Momo reminds me. "It is understandable."

"Thanks for teaching me about it," I say. "You know so much—I wish I knew all this stuff."

"Well, you can't be totally ignorant of your world," Momo replies. "Someone needs to teach you."

"And I got the best girl for the job," I murmur, and I could swear she smiles.

Again.

Momo pours another brown liquid, this one darker, into the pot with the dashi. "This is tare," she explains. "It helps to season the broth, and the pork is marinated in it. It is a sort of concentrated soy sauce. Tadashi, would you chop the green onions? I have regular knives in that drawer—no offense, but I do not trust you to use the graphene blades as kitchen implements yet."

"I wouldn't trust me either," I admit. "Yeah, I can chop the onions."

I grab a knife out of the indicated drawer, in which I also find a cutting board. The green onions are out on the kitchen island, and I carefully mince them into small pieces.

"If you don't mind, we will not be using mushrooms," Momo informs me. "I find them unappealing to my palate."

"I would have just said they were gross," I shrug, "but that works too. Yeah, mushrooms are nasty."

Once I finish chopping the green onions, I go over to the pot on the stove and find that the noodles are ready. I look around for a colander and spot one on the counter by the sink, deciding to pour the noodles into that. Quickly, I place the colander in the sink, then carry the pot over to it and drain the noodles into it.

"Excellent," Momo tells me. "Now all that is left is to boil the eggs—I apologize for the fact that they will not be marinated. We do not have time for such a long process."

"That's okay," I assure her. "I mean, I've never had anything past instant ramen, so I'm sure it'll be fine."

Momo pours water into another pot—how many pots does she have?—and gently lowers two eggs into it with a spoon. "Everything will be ready in about four minutes. Would you retrieve two bowls from the cupboard?"

I nod and go over to the cupboard, pulling out two beautifully painted porcelain bowls. Amazed by the intricate detail, I trace the designs with my finger—cherry blossom trees, beautiful Shinto temples, the towers of the bridge against the sunset. I've never seen anything like it.

"Momo?" I ask. "Who painted these?"

"Oh—a friend of mine," she says, staring into the pot with the eggs. "A long time ago. He is—was a very gifted painter."

"He's gone?" I whisper. "I'm really sorry, Momo. These are beautiful."

"They are," Momo says softly. "It is alright."

I set the bowls on the counter, retrieving our chopsticks from the couch and setting them on the sides of the bowls. Momo picks up the pot with the dashi in it and pours some into each bowl, then goes to the colander in the sink and carries it over to the counter. She picks up noodles with each pair of chopsticks and sets them in their respective bowls, and my mouth starts to water.

A timer goes off, and Momo stops it. "I do believe the eggs are ready. Tadashi, would you bring the onions over here and put some on top of the ramen when I've put the meat and eggs in?"

"Of course," I agree, hurrying over to the island and picking up the cutting board. Momo pulls the eggs out of the pot with her spoon, then slices them into halves with a graphene blade. She puts the two halves of each egg into their respective bowls, then carefully arranges the meat in the center.

"Should I put the onions on now?" I ask.

"One last thing," Momo replies. She goes to the cupboard and pulls out a package of what looks like leaves, then tears it open and places several dark green pieces in each bowl.

"This is kombu," Momo explains. "Dried kelp. Now, Tadashi, you may put the onions on."

I split the onions as evenly as I can between the two bowls, and then it's finally time to eat. Momo hands me a bowl, then goes over to the wall, where a rolled-up mat sits. She picks the mat up and spreads it across the floor, then takes her bowl from the counter and sits down.

"This is really cool," I whisper, sitting down across from Momo. "I can't believe I didn't know all this stuff. My dad was Japanese, but he and my mom died when I was seven, and we usually just ate at the table. So I've never really learned a lot about Japanese culture."

"That is alright with me," Momo tells me. "I'm happy to teach you. Now—shall we see if you can pull off eating ramen with chopsticks?"

I gingerly pick up a piece of meat with my chopsticks, examining it. Then I place it carefully in my mouth, amazed at how tender it is. I immediately go for the noodles next, picking some up along with a piece of kombu.

"This is amazing, Momo," I whisper. "Seriously, I've never had ramen this good."

"I thought you had not had any ramen before."

"I haven't. But this is seriously awesome!"

I dip my chopsticks back into the bowl, and Momo looks on with amusement as I devour it. The egg's soft, runny yolk mixes perfectly with the dashi, which feels like it's warming up my insides. Across the mat, Momo eats much more gracefully, careful not to spill anything.

"Congratulations," Momo says dryly—but kind of proudly, I think—when my bowl is empty. "You have successfully learned how to use chopsticks—a feat which I did not think possible from someone so clumsy. Excellent job."

I give her a small smile. "Thanks, Momo."

I pull out my phone and glance down at it, realizing that I've been at Momo's for almost two hours. "Oh my gosh—I'd better get going. My aunt's gonna freak out if I'm not back soon."

Standing up, I go over to Momo's door and put my shoes on, then pick up the plate I brought, which still has a lot of Thanksgiving leftovers on it. Momo opens the door, and I step outside into the chilly air.

"Thanks for the ramen, Momo," I say sincerely, smiling again. "That was really fun—maybe we could do it again sometime?"

"Don't get your hopes up," she replies, but she's smiling too.