My Little Stepsister is Addicted to Gacha Games-132 – Cooking Together
Makoto pulled up to his apartment building. The sound of the engine cutting out was loud in the silence. "We're here," he said softly.
Mafuyu-nee flinched, as if woken from a trance. She looked at the familiar building, and then at him. Before he could say anything, he heard the front windows of his apartment slam open above him.
"WHERE THE FUCK IS MY STEAK, YOU SLOW-ASS PIG?!" Yuna's voice, a raw shriek of hangry fury, echoed down the street. "I'M STARVING!"
Mafuyu-nee jumped, a small, terrified squeak escaping her lips. The loud voice seemed to break the spell of her fear. A flicker of something, a ghost of an amused smile, touched her lips for a fraction of a second. "She sounds hungry," she whispered, her voice impossibly small.
He led her up the stairs and pushed the door open. The scene that greeted them was utter chaos.
Yuna was at the sewing machine, glaring at the door with murderous intent. Ayane was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through her phone, her shirt still askew from earlier. And Mika, still completely naked, was sweeping the floor, her bruised ass a vibrant splash of color in the room.
They all looked up as he entered. For a moment, there was stunned silence as three pairs of eyes landed on the small, trembling woman standing behind him.
"Still testing your clothes, Mika? You should put something on," Makoto said nonchalantly, pretending he wasn't the one who had stripped her. He winked at Yuna. "I met Mafuyu at the supermarket, so I brought her back to help me make dinner."
Mika, completely unfazed by her nudity, just offered a calm smile. She set the broom against the wall with a quiet, deliberate motion. "Oh, hello," she said, her voice soft. "It's a pleasure to meet you." She gave a small bow.
Yuna's jaw, which had been set in a furious, hungry glare, dropped. She stared at Mafuyu-nee, her eyes wide with shock, confusion, and dawning realization. "Mafuyu-nee?" she whispered, her voice raw. "What are you...?"
Ayane just raised an eyebrow, a slow, predatory grin spreading across her face. She looked from Mafuyu's terrified expression to him, and then back again. "Oh," she said, her voice low and amused. She sat up, new interest in her eyes. "This is getting interesting."
Mafuyu-nee just stood there, small and fragile in the doorway. She looked like she was about to either faint or bolt. Her eyes were wide, her face was pale, and her hands were twisting her sleeve.
Makoto turned to her and started introducing the girls. "So, they are Mika and Ayane, Yuna's friends."
Then Mika, the beautiful, naked, and perceptive second wife, spoke. "You're hurt," she said, her voice soft and curious. It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact. She took a step closer, her gaze fixed on Mafuyu's wrist, where the sleeve of her cardigan had ridden up just enough to reveal the dark, angry edge of a bruise.
Makoto coughed as he walked into the kitchen with Mafuyu following. "Ehem, it might be some bruises from her waitress work."
He nodded at the girls. "We're going to make curry tonight, with extra beef for you, Yuna, and fried pork for you, too, Ayane. Just help me clean up the dining table, please."
The air in the living room was thick with unspoken questions. His explanation for the bruise was flimsy, paper-thin, and no one believed it. But it was also a clear command:
"Drop it, for now."
Mika's serene smile didn't falter. Her gaze, however, sharpened with cold, analytical light. She looked from Mafuyu's wrist to Makoto's face, a silent exchange that promised a full debriefing later. Then, with fluid efficiency, she nodded. "Of course," she said, picking up her discarded clothes. "I'll get dressed and set the table."
Ayane let out a low whistle. "Dinner and a show," she muttered under her breath. She swung her legs off the couch with a theatrical groan. "Alright, alright, I'm coming. A girl's got to earn her fried pork, I guess." She started clearing away fabric scraps and empty candy wrappers from the low table.
Yuna just stared, her face a storm of conflicting emotions. The hangry rage was gone, replaced by deep confusion. She knew Mafuyu-nee. She knew her as the kind, gentle waitress who always gave her extra dessert. Seeing her like this: small, terrified, and bruised, didn't make sense to her.
But she also heard Makoto's command, and the promise of extra beef was a powerful lure. "Fine," she grumbled, her voice low and uncertain. She shoved her sewing project aside. "But if my steak isn't perfect, I'm blaming you." She jerked her head toward the kitchen, but there was no real heat in her words. Only a deep, unsettling worry.
Makoto led Mafuyu into the calm kitchen. She followed him like a ghost, her footsteps silent. "They're... energetic," she whispered as she took in the domestic chaos she had just witnessed.
Makoto shrugged as he started washing the vegetables. "Yeah, sometimes too energetic for their own good." He looked at her. "Can you help me cook the rice and make the tamagoyaki, please? Leave me some eggs for coating the katsudon, too."
The simple, domestic task seemed to ground Mafuyu-nee. Her hands, which had been trembling, became steady and sure as she measured the rice and water. The practiced motions of cracking eggs, of whisking them with chopsticks, seemed to bring a flicker of life back into her eyes.
They worked in a comfortable, almost-silent partnership. The only sounds were the rhythmic chop of his knife, the soft sizzle of the tamagoyaki in the square pan, and the gentle bubble of the curry on the stove. It was a strange peace in the midst of the chaotic storm of her life.
"You're very good at this, Makoto," Mafuyu said, her voice soft and curious. She was watching him expertly slice the pork, his movements quick and precise. "You'd make a good husband." The words hung in the air, fragile and heartbreaking.
Makoto chuckled, a low sound as he tried to hide the jealousy and anger in his heart. "You said the same thing back then, when you taught me to cook, Mafuyu-nee. And I said I would become your husband when I'm of legal age."
The memory seemed to twist the knife deeper into Mafuyu-nee's heart. A small, choked sound escaped her lips, half-laugh, half-sob. "You were so young," she whispered, her voice raw, a symphony of nostalgia and regret.
"You said you'd buy me a big house, with a big kitchen." She turned, and her eyes were shining with unshed tears. "You were a very sweet boy."
She turned back to the stove, her shoulders slumped. "Tatsuya never cooks. He doesn't like it when I cook, either," she whispered, her voice a raw confession to the bubbling curry. "He says it smells." Her hand, holding the spatula, trembled for just a fraction of a second. "He says it makes the apartment smell... poor."
Makoto snorted. "That man doesn't know how to appreciate good things, it seems." He pressed down the beefsteak onto the pan, applying more force than necessary. "How did you know him, anyway?"
The sizzle of the steak was loud and angry in the small kitchen. "He's... a customer, at the café, " she explained, her voice low and hesitant. She wouldn't meet his eyes. She just stared at the floor.
"He was always very charming. He'd send me flowers. He'd tell me I had a beautiful smile." She looked away, a flicker of shame in her eyes. "He was the first man who ever... who ever noticed me," she confessed, her voice choked. "I thought... I thought I was lucky."
She took a deep, shuddering breath. "But his friends... they don't like me," she said, her voice raw. "They call me a charity case." She finally looked up, and her eyes were filled with deep, profound sadness. "And Tatsuya, he doesn't defend me."
Makoto almost said it out loud, "Maybe he thought the same thing", before he closed his mouth so he wouldn't hurt her further. Mafuyu-nee flinched, as if Makoto's unspoken words had been shouted. She can guess what he was thinking. She also knew what Tatsuya and his friend felt; she just didn't know how to escape it.
"Well, let's not talk about unpleasant things if it makes you uncomfortable, Mafuyu-nee." He flipped the steak, and then he took a small spoon from the curry pot. "Can you help me taste this, then? Did I improve?"
The offer of the spoon was a lifeline. A simple, domestic, and incredibly kind gesture that pulled her back from the edge. She leaned in, her movements hesitant and shy. She took the spoon, her fingers brushing against his for a fraction of a second. She brought the spoon to her lips, blew on it gently, and took a small, tentative sip.
Her eyes went wide. A beautiful and genuine smile spread across her face. It was fragile and broken, but it was the most beautiful thing he had seen all day. "It's delicious," she whispered, her voice thick with surprise. "It's perfect." She took another, less-hesitant sip, her eyes closing in a moment of pure bliss.
"You've gotten so much better, Makoto," she murmured, her voice low and appreciative. "You don't even need me anymore." There was a note of sadness in her voice, a quiet grief for the person she used to be. The person who used to teach, to nurture, to be needed.
Makoto shrugged playfully. "I'm not so sure." He looked at her. "I can never make a tamagoyaki as good as you. And there are many recipes you haven't taught me yet."
A small, almost inaudible chuckle escaped Mafuyu-nee's lips. It was a fragile sound, like the chiming of a cracked bell, but it was a laugh nonetheless. "Maybe," she whispered, a ghost of her old smile touching her lips. "Maybe one day, I can teach you how to make omurice with the ketchup smiley face. Yuna loved that."
As he heard the ding from the rice cooker, he opened it and put the rice into plates. "Can you help me pour the curry on and bring them out, please? I'll follow."
The simple task seemed to give her a renewed sense of purpose. She moved with quiet, efficient grace, scooping the fragrant, steaming curry over the beds of fluffy rice, her movements practiced and sure. She carried two plates out to the living room, her steps a little hesitant, as if she were afraid of what she would find.
Makoto followed a moment later with the other two plates, along with the perfectly cooked steak, the crispy katsudon, and the golden-brown tamagoyaki.
The scene that greeted him was a picture of surreal domesticity. The three girls were sitting around the low table, which had been cleared and set with surprising care. Yuna, Ayane, and Mika were all on one side, a united, if chaotic, front.
They had left a space for him, and a space for Mafuyu, right next to him.
.
!
132 – Cooking Together
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