There was a brief, almost awkward pause at the table.
Four bowls of ramen steamed gently between them, rich broth shimmering under the mana-lamp's glow. The scent still lingered thick in the air, curling around the room and slipping out through the open window like an invitation.
Then reality intruded.
Leon looked down at the table.
Elena followed his gaze.
The attendant blinked once.
The man from Earth frowned.
No chopsticks.
"…I didn't think about that," Leon admitted.
On Earth, it would have been obvious. Here, in Aurelion, utensils were designed for efficiency—knives, spoons, forks, all forged with subtle enchantments for local cuisine. Chopsticks simply didn't exist.
Elena covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. "You recreated ramen perfectly," she teased softly. "Except for the most important tool."
Leon sighed, then stood. "Forks will have to do."
He retrieved four forks from the kitchen drawer and handed them out. The man from Earth accepted his like it was a relic. The attendant examined hers with mild curiosity, as if unsure whether it was truly appropriate for noodles.
"Well," Leon said, sitting back down, "this is… fusion culture."
That earned a small smile from Elena.
The first few attempts were clumsy. Noodles slipped. Broth splashed lightly against the bowls. The attendant tried twirling the noodles like pasta, failed, adjusted, and tried again—this time with more success.
"…I see," she said thoughtfully. "This utensil forces patience."
The man from Earth laughed softly, the sound surprised even himself. "Back home, we used forks for everything anyway. Even food we weren't supposed to."
Leon nodded. "Same. Survival beats tradition."
They ate.
And despite the wrong utensils, despite the alien world, despite the strange circumstances that had thrown them together—
the ramen tasted right.
The broth warmed their chests.
The noodles filled something deeper than hunger.
Outside, a few people had stopped pretending not to notice. Someone whispered. Someone else leaned closer, drawn by curiosity and scent alike.
Elena caught Leon's eye over the rim of her bowl.
"This is dangerous," she said lightly.
He raised an eyebrow. "Cooking?"
"Sharing," she corrected.
Leon glanced at the door, then at the empty pot already scraped nearly clean. Slowly, he smiled—small, genuine, unguarded.
"…Then we'll have to be careful," he said.
But even as he spoke, the fork in his hand felt heavier than it should have.
Not because of the metal—
but because of what this simple meal was becoming.