Chapter Text
The ramen shop was tucked beneath a flickering sign and a rust-stained awning, barely big enough to fit three people and a countertop. It was the kind of place that smelled like broth before you stepped through the door, where the floors stuck slightly and the stools were never level—but the food made up for everything else.
Tomi sat between Byakuya and Senku, legs curled onto her stool, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. She didn’t say much. She didn’t need to.
Steam drifted off the surface of her bowl, curling upward like a soft exhale. She stirred the noodles with chopsticks and listened.
Byakuya slurped his ramen with the kind of enthusiasm only someone who worked around astronauts could manage without embarrassment.
“Honestly,” he said between bites, “I wish my lab had half the focus you two managed under pressure. That reassembly? Clinical. You looked like you were performing surgery.”
Senku rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t that dramatic.”
Tomi signed, “We had five minutes.”
Byakuya nodded solemnly. “Exactly my point.”
Tomi glanced sideways at him. Her fingers tapped against her chopsticks briefly before she signed, “How’s work?”
“Oh, you know,” Byakuya said. “More paperwork than science. We’re prepping for another material exposure test next month. Long hours. Too many safety protocols. We’re trying to simulate lunar radiation conditions again, and the lead shielding alone is a nightmare.”
Senku perked up. “Wait, what base configuration are you using?”
Byakuya grinned. “Modified tri-chamber. Oxygen sensors in all three, low yield photon source. It’s overkill, but the grant wanted something flashy.”
“Overkill is half the fun,” Senku said, already reaching for the paper napkin to sketch something.
Tomi watched them with quiet interest. It wasn’t like watching teacher and student. It was more like watching a slow volley between people who built things in their bones. She took a sip of broth and let the warmth settle.
Byakuya nudged her with his elbow gently. “You keeping him humble?”
Tomi nodded once. Then signed, “Barely.”
Senku didn’t look up from the napkin. “You say that like you don’t enjoy having front-row seats to greatness.”
Tomi signed, “It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. But with equations.”
Byakuya laughed so hard he had to wipe his glasses.
The warmth in the ramen shop wasn’t just from the soup. It was in the soft familiarity of movement—the clatter of bowls, the unspoken rhythm of conversation, the comfort of knowing someone well enough to speak without words.
Senku slurped a noodle, paused, then said without looking at either of them:
“Next year, we win.”
Tomi didn’t respond immediately.
Then she tapped the side of her bowl.
“Then we’ll need better heat sinks.”
“Already designing them,” he replied.
Byakuya watched the two of them and smiled.
He didn’t say it out loud.
But he thought:
They’ll build the future, those two. And it’ll probably be held together with wires and willpower.
The last of the broth disappeared with a hollow scrape of chopsticks against ceramic.
Byakuya set his empty bowl aside with a small, contented exhale, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin that had already lost most of its structure.
Across the table, Senku leaned back, balancing precariously on the back legs of his stool, arms crossed over his chest in a way that said I’m full but not satisfied.
Tomi finished last. Not because she ate slowly—she didn’t—but because she lingered. She dragged her spoon once through the last swirl of broth like she didn’t want to admit she wanted more, even if it wasn’t noodles.
Byakuya patted his stomach. “Well,” he said, voice still light with lingering amusement, “victory ramen is complete. Dessert?”
Tomi stilled.
Her chopsticks clicked against the rim of her bowl as she set them down neatly. She rubbed her thumb along her sleeve, thinking, then signed without looking up:
“Unnecessary. Gratitude enough. Full.”
It was formal. Too formal. A clumsy shield.
Byakuya caught it immediately but didn’t press. He just gave her a small, understanding smile.
Senku, though.
Senku watched her.
Saw the tiny twitch of her eyes toward the dessert menu taped askew on the wall. Saw the way she tugged her sleeves back down, like she could physically shove want away.
He sighed. Long. Loud.
Dragged a hand through his hair with performative exhaustion.
Then said, dry as desert sand:
“I want matcha ice cream.”
Tomi shot him a look that would have felled lesser men.
Senku met it with a dead-eyed stare, mouthing exaggeratedly: You’re welcome.
Byakuya chuckled, folding his arms behind his head like he’d just sat back to watch fireworks. “Matcha ice cream, huh? Two scoops?”
“Yeah. Fine. Two,” Senku grumbled, glaring at nothing.
“And one for you too, Tomi?” Byakuya added, playing along like it wasn’t even a question.
Tomi made a small movement like she might refuse—but she knew better. She signed, minimal:
“Fine.”
The old man behind the counter smiled and slid two green-tinged bowls their way, each with a tiny wooden spoon stabbed into the surface like a flag of surrender.
Tomi accepted hers with the solemnity of receiving marching orders.
Senku took his with a groan so pointed you could practically hear him drafting a lawsuit against human emotion.
They ate.
Quietly at first.
The clink of spoons against porcelain.
The low murmur of street traffic outside.
The smell of broth and soy still clinging to the walls.
Tomi nibbled at the corner of her ice cream, eyes half-lidded, pretending not to enjoy it. Senku shoveled a spoonful into his mouth like a man demanding to suffer for a higher cause.
“You owe me,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Tomi’s reply was slow, deliberate signing: “Not how favor debt works.”
Senku huffed. “It is now. I’m writing a scientific amendment.”
Byakuya just watched them.
Smiling. Quietly.
Like a man lucky enough to witness something stubborn and beautiful growing in the wild.
He wasn’t stupid.
He saw it—the way they clicked into each other without noticing. The way Tomi’s silences were never awkward with Senku around. The way Senku’s sharpness dulled into something almost fond when he teased her.
Neither of them would admit it yet, he thought. They’re too young. Too busy surviving.
But it was there.
And it was steady.
They finished their bowls at the same pace, synchronized without meaning to.
Senku licked the last smear of matcha from his spoon and set it down with a clink.
Tomi tapped the rim of her bowl twice, a small satisfied gesture, before sliding it toward the center of the table.
Byakuya stood first, grabbing the bill off the counter with the same ease he handled last-minute mission paperwork. “Stay put. I’m paying. No arguing.”
Senku leaned heavily onto the counter, exhausted but smug. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Tomi raised two fingers in a lazy salute.
Byakuya shook his head fondly and wandered off to the register.
For a moment, the shop was warm and still.
The kind of stillness that made you think maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.
By the time Byakuya returned from paying, the shop lights had begun to dim. A few late passersby lingered near the far booths, but the heavy rhythm of the evening rush had drained out into the street.
Senku stood, stretching with a groan that cracked every vertebra in his back. Tomi slid off her stool with much less noise, pulling her sleeves down as she shouldered her small bag.
They stepped outside together into the cool night air. The pavement still held the warmth of the day, radiating faintly under their feet. Above them, a battered streetlamp buzzed half-heartedly, casting uneven light.
Tomi wandered a few steps down the sidewalk, stopping where her bike was still chained to a lamppost—scraped, a little battered, but intact. She crouched, pulling the lock free with one practiced motion.
Senku and Byakuya watched her, standing side by side.
“You sure you don’t want a ride back?” Byakuya called lightly, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “We’ve got space. No illegal bike balancing necessary this time.”
Tomi straightened up, resting one hand lightly on the handlebars. Her other hand moved:
“Close. Faster.”
Senku huffed. “Only because you drive like you’re trying to violate traffic laws that don’t exist yet.”
Tomi gave a half-shrug, half-nod that somehow managed to say yeah, and?
Byakuya chuckled, stepping forward a little. “Alright, alright. Just don’t go launching into orbit, okay?”
Tomi dipped her chin—an almost bow—and gave a small, careful smile. Quick. Gone in a flash, but there.
She swung one leg over the bike, adjusted the strap of her bag once.
Paused.
Looked at them both.
Senku tilted his head a fraction, reading something in the way she tightened her grip on the handlebars.
He didn’t say anything like be careful or good job or see you tomorrow.
He just raised his hand in a slow half-wave.
Tomi lifted two fingers off the handlebar in response.
Then, without another word, she kicked off and pedaled down the street, slipping into the soft halo of streetlights, tires whispering against the asphalt.
Byakuya watched her go, the smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.
“You know,” he said, quiet, almost to himself, “she reminds me of you.”
Senku, hands shoved into his pockets, just watched the shrinking shape of her in the distance.
“Yeah,” he said eventually. “I know.”
Byakuya clapped a hand onto Senku’s shoulder as they started walking toward the parking lot, feet scuffing lightly against the sidewalk.
“Well,” Byakuya said, voice just a little too casual, “you taking the loss okay, or should I be worried about an existential crisis in the backseat?”
Senku snorted, rolling his eyes.
“Be quiet, old man.”
Byakuya laughed—a warm, belly-deep sound—and fished his keys out of his pocket, twirling them once around his finger. “You did good. Both of you. You know that, right?”
Senku didn’t answer immediately. He shoved his hands into his pockets, the streetlights making long shadows across the cracked pavement.
They reached the car, Byakuya unlocking it with a lazy beep of the fob.
Before Senku could yank the door open, Byakuya leaned against the roof of the car, looking at him sideways.
“And Tomi?” he said, voice quieter now. “You two... you make a good team.”
Senku paused.
Not stiff. Not defensive.
Just paused.
He shrugged once—sharp, efficient. Like a bird ruffling its feathers against a chill.
“Yeah,” he said. “She’s fine.”
Byakuya smiled, small and knowing, but didn’t push.
Senku slid into the passenger seat, slamming the door with a little more force than necessary.
Byakuya got behind the wheel, started the engine, and they pulled away from the curb, the ramen shop shrinking behind them like a paper lantern left flickering in the dark.
The city hummed quietly around them.
Neither spoke.
Neither needed to.