I was Thrown into an Unfamiliar Manga

A week had passed since then.
Kishimoto Rika had really kept her word.
While she didn’t say a single word to me at school, every day after class she waited for me in front of the subway platform until I showed up.

If anyone saw this, it’d be a scene ripe for misunderstanding, but neither of us had any thoughts in that direction, so we were innocent.
As usual, I was talking with her on the train ride home when I casually asked about the protagonist.
Since it had already been a week since she transferred, I figured something must’ve progressed by now.

“Come to think of it, Kishimoto, you seem to be getting along with Sakamoto, your seatmate.”
At that, Kishimoto Rika, who had been humming while chatting on LINE, looked at me and went, “Hm?”
“What’s this all of a sudden? Hah~! Coouuuld it be… jealousy?”

“……”
Caught off guard by her sudden accusation, I went silent, invoking my right to remain silent.
Then Kishimoto nudged my side with her elbow and said, “You’re unexpectedly cute, you know~ You little rascal! You rascal!” as she stuffed her phone into her cardigan pocket.

“Well, Sakamoto isn’t a bad guy, that’s true. But do I have feelings for him as the opposite sex? Hmm, not really, you know?”
“Why not?”
“I have this policy of not going after someone who’s already taken.”

I mean, it kinda feels like stealing, doesn’t it?
As she said that, Kishimoto looked up at me and gave a sly grin.
Hm. For a modern high school girl—especially in these carnivorous times—it was a surprisingly wholesome dating philosophy.

But from my position as the observer, this was a bit of a problem.
Because this was the main heroine of volume one of the original work openly telling her friend she had no romantic interest in the protagonist.
Is this… okay? Scramble Love?
I couldn’t help but wonder.

Even though we’d been commuting together every day for a week, this was the first time Kishimoto had talked to me so seriously, and now she just kept staring out the window like she was feeling shy.
Her profile was so picturesque that I found myself zoning out while staring at her—and then suddenly, her stomach made a strange noise.
Grrrowl—

“Ah.”
Startled, she looked up and locked eyes with me.
Blushing, Kishimoto quickly lowered her head, then glanced at me as if something had just occurred to her.

“Didn’t you say your family runs a restaurant? Feed me.”
…What?
***

“I’m home.”
Mikoya.
A casual eatery named after Kim Yu-seong’s mother, Im I-ja. It was a Korean restaurant, converted from a two-story wooden house in a residential area.

The specialty menu was Korean-style yakiniku and assorted Korean dishes.
Unusual for pricey Japan, they provided three or four side dishes for free, earning the place a great reputation among homesick Korean students and local regulars alike.
Looks like Mom was just cleaning up a table after some customers had left, because when she saw me, she greeted me with a smile—and then suddenly froze.

“Yu-seong, who’s the young lady next to you?”
Since entering high school, this was only the second time I’d brought a friend home.
And the first time had been nearly half a year ago, so it was no surprise that Mom was shocked.

“This is—”
“Nice to meet you! Ma’am! I’m Kishimoto Rika, a classmate of Kim-kun!”
The introduction I’d been about to give was completely drowned out by Kishimoto’s cheerful greeting.

“O-oh, I see.”
Mom, clearly startled by the foreign-looking girl suddenly speaking to her, stammered as she asked in English:
“Whe, where are you from?”

“? I’m from Shizuoka.”
Kishimoto responded innocently.
The highlight here was that both their accents were lightyears away from being native.

A clash between Konglish and Japlish. It was almost moving.
Before the misunderstanding deepened, I stepped in.
“Mom, this one here is a proud Japanese native who speaks literally zero languages.”

“Excuse you! Who’re you calling a zero-languages person?!”
Kishimoto puffed up in protest and gave my chest a little punch—but it was so soft it didn’t hurt at all.
Mom, who’d been watching us with a strangely warm look in her eyes, suddenly clapped her hands and said,

“Oh, right. I’m so scatterbrained. You two haven’t had dinner yet, right? Kishimoto-chan, if it’s okay with you, eat with us. I’ll whip up something delicious.”
“Really?!”
Only then did Kishimoto seem to remember her original goal. Her face lit up and she shouted, “Yay!”

Personally, her exaggerated reactions always made me cringe a bit, but adults seemed to find them cute and endearing.
After seating her at an empty table, Mom motioned for me to come over just as she was heading into the kitchen.
Wondering what it was, I set down my bag and walked over.

Mrs. Im I-ja whispered in my ear,
“So, what’s your relationship with that girl?”
“We’re not in any kind of relationship.”

“Really? That’s a shame. She’s bright, friendly—she seems like perfect daughter-in-law material.”
“……”
What the hell? Is Mom’s brain also getting taken over by this romcom dimension?

She’s already thinking about daughter-in-law material for someone she just met ten minutes ago?
“Don’t get carried away—just serve the food.”
As I said that and gave her a gentle push toward the kitchen, she reluctantly turned back and went in.

Finally able to breathe, I headed toward the fridge to grab water and cups. Something occurred to me, so I turned and asked Kishimoto, who was sitting at the table swinging her legs:
“Cider or cola?”
Her face lit up again.

“Both!”
Nodding, I pulled out two chilled cans and brought them back to the table along with the water pitcher.
Pssht!

As soon as she received the red cola can, Kishimoto popped the tab without hesitation.
I took a sip of cold water and asked her,
“Still not allowed to drink soda at home?”

Kishimoto let out a loud “Kyaa!” as foam clung to her lips, then nodded.
“Whatever it is, it always tastes better when you only have it once in a while instead of every day, right? That’s the difference.”
Nodding at her unexpectedly sound philosophy, I moved on to the question I’d been wondering about all the way home.

“But is it okay for you to eat at our place? Aren’t your parents waiting?”
She tilted her head in confusion while shaking the empty can for the last drops.
“Didn’t I say? Mama’s coming home late today, so I had to eat out anyway. Figured I might as well come check out your family’s restaurant.”

The mystery of why she suddenly demanded food from me was finally solved.
Well, yeah—she’s not Dooly the dinosaur or anything. Kishimoto wouldn’t just randomly demand a meal for no reason.
While Mom was busy in the kitchen, I headed to the self-serve bar to prepare the side dishes. Suddenly, Kishimoto, who had been chewing on her chopsticks, casually asked:

“Oh! After we eat, can I go up to your room?”
“…What?”
Startled by her sudden request, I froze mid-tongs.

“If not today, then when? Back in Shizuoka, I only had girlfriends, so I’ve never seen a guy’s room before. I kinda want to check it out.”
Clatter—Clatter—
Doing my best to stay calm, I brought the side dishes to the table and replied,

“Do whatever you want.”
…Shit. I’m screwed.
***

“Tada! Thanks for waiting!”
Smiling brightly, Mom brought out the restaurant’s specialties—spicy pork bulgogi and cheonggukjang without the smell.
It was a localized, odorless version for Japan, but the deep flavor of cheonggukjang still remained.

“Whoa! Looks so good!”
Kishimoto, who had been holding her chopsticks in her mouth the whole time, sparkled as she stared down at the food being placed on the table.
Surprisingly, her attention wasn’t on the pork, but on the cheonggukjang.

What the—does she {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} have the taste buds of a grandma?
Seeing my confused stare, Kishimoto cheerfully shouted,
“Ma’am! My favorite dish is natto-jiru!”

Mom, pleased as she placed the bowl down, replied,
“Oh my! Really? Then you’ll like this, too!”
“Huh? This isn’t natto-jiru?”

Sensing something was off in their conversation, Kishimoto tilted her head cutely. Mom chuckled and explained,
“Dear, this is Korea’s version of natto-jiru—cheonggukjang.”
“Chyeong…gukjang?”

Honestly, for a first try, her pronunciation was pretty decent—but still, that word…
She didn’t seem to notice, so I decided not to bring it up.
“It’s delicious on its own, or mixed with rice along with the ingredients inside.”

Saying so, Mom ladled out the cheonggukjang from the pot and handed it to Kishimoto.
She stared at the odorless soup in fascination, scooped up a big spoonful, and put it in her mouth.
“……!”

Her eyes went wide, and then she began shoveling it down along with rice in a frenzy.
Looks like she really liked it.
Watching her eat with a fond smile, Mom said,

“Eat a lot, dear. If it’s not enough, I’ll make more.”
“Kamusa-hamnida!”
Like a chipmunk with full cheeks, Kishimoto bowed her head and thanked her in clumsy Korean—then proceeded to completely ignore the spicy pork and devour only the cheonggukjang.

What the—terrifying.
What is this girl? Does she have cheonggukjang running through her veins instead of blood?