KIERAN
By the time the last guy shut the door behind him, the silence dropped like a sigh.
Finally.
I looked around the apartment, her apartment, and for the first time, it didn't look like a rundown charity case. Clean lines, decent furniture, and working appliances. Not bad. Not bad at all.
I glanced over at the bag Mrs. Kim handed me, the scent of kimchi stew already seeping into the space. Rich. Savory. Tangy. It hit my stomach like a memory I'd never had.
I pulled the sleeves of my hoodie up and stretched my shoulder, wincing a little. Still tender. Still bleeding if I pushed too hard. But worth it.
If I was going to keep avoiding death by her abomination of a breakfast routine, I needed to step in. So I did.
First, rice. Used the new rice cooker that was so shiny it looked like it belonged to a better kitchen. It purred like a cat. I kind of liked it.
Then I unpacked the banchan, egg rolls, sweet anchovies, pickled radish, and rearranged them with the precision of a man who once slit throats in the dark for a living. Call it muscle memory.
But the kimchi stew… I added more pork. A soft-boiled egg for richness. Scallions for color. Something that could actually pass for a comfort meal instead of leftover guilt from a neighbor.
It was 5:45 when I was done.
I set the table. Two spoons. Two bowls. A quiet little domestic scene that made me stare for too long.
She should've been home by now.
6:00.
No sign.
6:10.
I stepped outside, lit a cigarette, scanned the street like an itch I couldn't scratch was building beneath my skin.
Still nothing.
I took out my phone and called her.
She picked. Finally.
"Hello?"
I heard the music before her voice. Soft. Low. Classy.
She was somewhere expensive. I could hear the clinking of cutlery and muted voices. Fancy restaurant. Definitely not somewhere we could've walked to.
"Kina."
She didn't say anything at first.
I asked her if she was alright and she mentioned having dinner.
With who?
But I didn't ask. Not because I didn't want to know. But because I did. And that made it worse. We exchanged a few more awkward words and then...
Click.
She ended the call too quickly. Just like that.
I stood there a second longer, the wind brushing past me, carrying away the smell of food I cooked for someone who wasn't coming home.
I put the phone down, stared up at the sky.
Didn't know why it stung. But it did.
And it had nothing to do with the reopened wound beneath my bandages.
By 7PM, I gave up pretending she'd walk through the door.
I sat down at the table anyway.
Two bowls. Two spoons.
I only needed one.
I didn't bother with formalities. Just shoved stew and rice into my mouth, chewing mechanically. It was good, better than anything I'd had in a long while. It was warm, rich, satisfying.
And somehow?
I still felt fucking hollow.
I cleared the table after eating half of everything, then said fuck it and finished the rest. By the end, I was full. Too full.
Bloated with something worse than food, expectation.
I leaned back in the chair, resting my palm on the ache in my side. The bandages were damp again. I shouldn't have eaten that much, not with my injury still recovering. Twelve days post-op. My body felt it.
I hated that I felt it.
The walls were too quiet. The couch too empty.
Her laughter, her chaos… her stupid cereal shelf, none of it felt right without her in it.
I grabbed my hoodie and slipped on some sneakers. Midnight run. Maybe it'd burn some of this off.
It was dumb. I knew it.
But I did it anyway.
My body complained with every step. My side throbbed with each stride. I got halfway down the block before the pain flared enough to slow me down.
Stupid.
You don't care. That's what I told myself. Over and over again.
You don't care if she's still out.
You don't care if she's with someone.
You don't care if she never comes back.
You don't fucking care.
But my phone was in my hand again. Thumb hovering over her name. I stared at it long enough for the screen to go black.
I dialed.
Straight to voicemail.
She turned it off.
I stopped walking and let the cold air bite into my skin. My jaw clenched.
I could track her. I could have Rocco tap her line. I could follow her trail like smoke and blood.
But I didn't.
Because it wasn't that deep.
Because if I admitted it was, I'd have to admit a lot of other things too.
I turned back.
By the time I got back to the apartment, it was 1:11AM.
Still empty.
Still dark.
And the food smell still lingered.
I stripped off my hoodie and stepped into the shower, letting hot water rinse off the salt of sweat and the weight of the night. My side hurt like a bitch. I braced myself on the tiles and breathed through it.
She still hadn't come back.
When I stepped out, dripping and annoyed, I reached for a towel.
Her towel.
Soft. Faded pink. Tiny stitched rabbits at the edge.
And then, her.
The scent was instant. Her shampoo. Her warmth.
I stopped breathing.
My body betrayed me immediately. I was rock hard.
I cursed under my breath as the heat settled low in my gut, blood rushing where it shouldn't, tightening fast.
I should've grabbed another towel. Any other towel.
But I didn't.
I stood there, towel clutched in my fist, her scent clouding every thought like a drug I didn't want to want.
Fucking hell.