I Picked Up A Stray Kingpin

For the first time in hours, there was silence.

A soft, warm silence. One of those rare ones that didn't feel awkward or heavy, just… comfortable. I lay limp on the rug, eyes half-lidded, the taste of ginger still haunting my tongue, while Kieran quietly picked up the empty teacup and moved it to the sink.

The sunlight coming in through the window was soft. The new rug beneath me was stupidly plush, like sleeping on whipped cream. I could still smell the faint spices from the stew. My cramps were still there, a dull echo of what they'd been, but my body had stopped screaming, and my head had stopped spinning.

It was weird.

I felt... taken care of.

Kieran had—ugh—taken care of me.

He cooked. He brought me tea. He made sure I didn't die of internal organ failure on this new rug.

I stared at his back as he washed the cup. Tall. Broad. Calm. Unbothered.

And then it hit me.

Wait.

He cooked?

I sat up slowly, blinking.

"Kieran?" I said, cautiously.

He hummed.

"That stew earlier… the one you left in my room. Where did you get it from?"

"Hmm?" He glanced over his shoulder. "What? You want more?"

"I mean—" I picked at a thread on my pajamas. "It was really good. Like, suspiciously good. How much did you spend ordering that? I'll pay you back. Eventually. When I'm not dying."

He turned around slowly, drying his hands with a towel. His face looked vaguely offended. Like I'd just insulted his grandmother.

"Excuse me?"

I blinked.

"The food," I said. "How much was it? I know you probably got it from some fancy place—"

"I made it," he said flatly.

I paused.

"Wait what?"

"I. Made. It." He folded his arms. "In this kitchen. With these hands."

I stared at him like he'd just told me he was a magical goat.

"You're lying."

He narrowed his eyes. "Why would I lie about cooking?"

"I just—" I looked away, flushing. "You don't seem like someone who'd know how to make something like that. I mean, that egg roll thingy? It was perfectly rolled. Who taught you that? Was it prison?"

He looked like he was deciding whether or not to throw the dish towel at me.

"You wound me, Kina."

"I just—"

"You can't cook to save your life and now you're projecting," he said smugly, walking back over.

I gasped. "Rude! I'll have you know I made eggs once."

"Burnt eggs," he said. "With shells in them."

Tch!

"I cooked for you," he continued, smirking as he crouched down beside me. "You liked it. You licked the bowl clean. Your dignity is mine now."

"Take it," I groaned, flopping backward dramatically. "I have no pride left anyway."

He chuckled under his breath, soft and smug, and the sound made something squeeze tight in my chest.

Kieran could cook.

Kieran made me tea.

Kieran was sitting right beside me, looking proud of himself for feeding me like some smug 6-foot-tall raccoon who learned how to use a stove.

And my traitorous heart was feeling things.

I was still lying on the rug when I turned to him.

"Okay, but seriously," I said, tilting my head just enough to look up at him. "How do you know how to cook like that?"

Kieran blinked at me, as if he wasn't expecting the question to be genuine. Like I was going to throw a sarcastic jab in there. But I didn't.

I meant it.

He looked away for a second, his gaze flicking toward the window where sunlight spilled onto the new furniture.

"I had someone," he finally said. "A caretaker, when I was younger."

I stayed quiet. Let him go on.

"He was... old. Annoying. Talked too much." A small twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. "But he loved to cook. Didn't matter if we had guests or not. Every meal was an occasion to him."

My chest tightened a little. There was something wistful in his tone.

"He'd hum when he cooked," Kieran added quietly. "Always wore this stupid apron with oil stains on it. He didn't care. He said feeding someone was the best way to show you gave a damn."

I stared.

"You helped him?"

He nodded once. "I was just a kid. I didn't know shit, but he let me try stuff. Said I was better at chopping vegetables than stabbing people."

I let out a soft laugh, and he smirked at the floor.

"What happened to him?" I asked, even though I wasn't sure if I should.

Kieran didn't answer right away.

His jaw flexed. Then unflexed.

"Life," he said, voice softer. "He's gone now."

I didn't push. Something about the way he said gone made me feel like I'd stepped on a landmine. But before I could say something like sorry and ruin the mood, he looked up at me again.

"I kept cooking," he muttered. "Not often. But… I like it. It's quiet. It makes sense."

I swallowed hard.

Because that was the most vulnerable thing I'd ever heard come out of his mouth. And suddenly, the stew, the tea, the rug—all of it felt heavier.

He didn't do it because he had to.

He did it because he wanted to.

Because someone once made him feel cared for through food—and now, maybe, just maybe, he was trying to pass that same feeling onto someone else.

Onto me.

And I didn't know what to do with that.

"…I'm sorry he's gone," I whispered.

Kieran shrugged lightly. "It is what it is."

There was a pause. A long, comfortable, aching pause.

Then he added, more teasing this time, "He'd probably cry if he saw what you did to those eggs the other day."

I shoved him lightly and rolled my eyes. "Let it go, chef."

"You're banned from the stove."

"You can't ban me from my own stove—"

"I upgraded it. It's mine now."

"I'll fight you."

He smirked down at me, smug and warm, and I realized I was smiling. Genuinely smiling. Despite the cramps, the self-loathing, the sheer disaster that was the last twenty-four hours—I felt… okay.

All because this man made soup.

And maybe…

Maybe that meant something.