Without realizing it, his legs carried him to the kitchen. He needed to do something, anything to keep his hands busy, to make the joy inside him bearable. Cooking. That was something he always did for her.
Even before everything fell apart, cooking for Alina had always meant something sacred to him, not about food, but about care. It was the quietest way he knew to say, I'm here for you.
Now the universe had given him another chance to cook for her. He rolled his sleeves up and opened the cabinets. The air was cool, faintly tinged with the scent of coffee and cinnamon.
As he started to cook, the rhythm of his movements softened into something steady: onions sizzling, the clink of a spoon, the soft hum of boiling rice.
Every motion carried a thought, a memory. He chopped the vegetables exactly the way she liked, small, neat, not too thin. He tasted it once, frowned, then adjusted the spice just enough to make it warm, not hot.
The kitchen light glows a soft amber, pouring warmth into the stillness that has hung heavy for days. Kai stands near the counter, sleeves rolled up, garnishing a plate with trembling fingers. The food is simple rice, soup, and vegetables, yet he's plated it like it's the most important meal of his life. Every tiny motion carries care, precision, and something wordless buried deep inside him.
Steam curls upward, ghostly, vanishing into the dim air. He exhales slowly. For the first time in days, something inside him feels light because Alina has woken up. He heard Granny's soft voice earlier, saying, "She's awake." Those words shattered the quiet prison he was trapped in.
Kai's hands are wet when he turns to wash them in the sink. The sound of running water breaks the silence, steady, rhythmic, grounding. But just as he closes the tap, he hears a faint click.
The sound of a door opening. His shoulders stiffen. His heartbeat stops for a second.
That door. The bathroom door. He doesn't move. His fingers rest on the edge of the basin, his knuckles whitening. Steam drifts through the open crack, soft and translucent, curling like mist through morning air.
The door opens slowly. The sound that tiny creak fills the house like a drop of rain in endless silence. And then her.
Alina steps out, wrapped in a bath towel, a loose knee-length t-shirt brushing softly against her skin. Her hair is damp, dark strands clinging to her neck, towel twisted above her head. The faint scent of soap and warmth surrounds her, mingling with the air, the scent of something living breathing after too many days of stillness.
The heat of the bath still clings to her. It has brought a little life back to her pale face. For the first time in days, she feels human again, no longer drifting in numbness, trapped in the endless ache that followed her mother's death.
She takes a step out, barefoot on the floor. The tiles feel cool against her skin. A sound reaches her: the faint clink of a spoon, water running, then silence. Someone's there.
She freezes. That height. That stillness. The way the light touches the edge of his shoulder. She doesn't need to see his face to know. It's him. She moves forward slowly, uncertain. Her breath trembles, and her heart beats so loud she can hear it echo inside her.
Kai stands there, in front of the basin. The reflection in the steel surface of the kettle faintly shows his outline, the sharp jawline, the shoulders, the stillness that once terrified the world. Kai Arden. The man people chase, the man people fear, the man who rules every room he walks into, and yet now, here, he stands motionless, like a statue carved out of guilt, love, and disbelief.
He doesn't turn. He can't. His throat closes when he senses her behind him. He can feel her warmth, her breath, her presence filling the empty room. He closes his eyes. His hands grip the edge of the sink. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe.
He's dreamed of this moment for days, her waking up, walking again, her voice filling the quiet corners. But now that it's here, he doesn't know what to do. What to say. How to exist. He can't face her. Because if he does, the wall he's been building will crumble.
Behind him, Alina takes another step. She sees his reflection now, faint, blurred, but enough. The shape of his back, the slope of his neck, the quiet stillness of his shoulders. It's him. It's really him.
Alina still remembers that night as if it were stitched into her soul every heartbeat, every trembling breath, every tear that refused to stop. She had locked herself inside her parents' house for three days. The curtains were drawn shut, the air heavy and stale, and the walls echoed with the silence she had buried herself in.
It wasn't just grief that filled her; it was emptiness. A hollow ache that made even breathing feel like a task. The food on the table went untouched. The phone kept ringing and ringing until it died. The world outside moved on, but Alina didn't.
She had forgotten what warmth felt like. Forgotten what light looked like. Her eyes were red from crying, her voice long gone from all the sobbing. Her hair was tangled, her body weak. She had stopped counting. Was it day or night? It didn't matter. Everything blurred together.
But that evening… something shifted. The first knock came so softly that she thought she imagined it. A faint thud against the door, fragile like a whisper. Her heart, long still and heavy, gave a sudden, sharp beat. She didn't move. She thought maybe it was her mind playing tricks again, the way grief sometimes does, making you hear what you crave most.
Then came the second knock firmer, clearer. Her breath hitched. That sound… it felt familiar. Like something from another lifetime. Her fingers twitched at her side, her chest rising and falling unevenly.
And then his voice. "Alina…" Just one word. Broken, raw, aching. The air left her lungs. She froze, eyes wide, lips parting, but no sound escaping. It couldn't be him. It can't be him, she told herself. He can't be him. But that voice… that tone… her heart recognized it before her mind could.
"Alina…" That was his voice. Kai. Her knees gave in before her will did. For a second, she didn't even realize she was moving her body just knew. Her hands reached for the doorknob before her mind caught up. Her tears blurred everything, her breath trembling as her fingers curled around the cold metal handle.
And the moment she twisted it open, He was there. Tall, motionless, his hand still halfway raised from knocking, his head slightly bowed, his breath shallow like he hadn't been breathing for hours. For a heartbeat, neither moved.
The world fell silent. The sound outside and the ticking clock inside, all of it vanished. There was only the space between them, fragile, trembling, alive. And then she ran.
She didn't think, didn't speak. Her body just moved. The door swung wide, and she rushed into him with everything she had with every ounce of pain, love, and longing that had lived inside her for years.
Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down as if she was afraid he'd fade away if she didn't hold him tight enough. The sudden impact almost knocked him off balance; he stumbled a step back, catching her by instinct. His hands came to her waist, hesitant for a heartbeat, then firm, grounding.
And in that instant, Alina finally breathed. The scent of him, that faint mix of rain, warmth, and something impossibly familiar, filled her lungs. Her fingers gripped the back of his hoodie so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her tears came without warning, without pause, hot and unstoppable. They slipped down her cheeks, seeping into his shoulder, and she didn't even care.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't memory. This was him. The man she thought she would never meet again was standing right here, holding her. Her mind screamed to ask questions: where were you, why did you go, why now, but her heart didn't want answers. It only wanted this: his warmth, his presence, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against hers.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt safe. She felt at home. That word… home.
It wasn't a place. It was him. Her tears slowed, but she didn't let go. She couldn't. Her arms trembled, her body weak, but she clung to him like he was the last bit of life she had left.
And in that moment, in that trembling, breathless stillness, everything she had buried inside her broke free. All the nights she cried alone. All the pain she hid behind a smile. It all spilled out silently, wordlessly, as she held him tighter.
She could feel his chest rise and fall unevenly. She could hear the way his breath caught. And even though he didn't speak a single word, she knew. He was feeling it too. The same ache. The same relief. The same indescribable pull that had bound them long before either of them could understand it.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't neat. It was messy and broken and raw, but it was real. That was the first time Alina ever felt at home. And now, seeing the faint silhouette of that man near the kitchen, tall and still, she felt it again. Her heart whispered before her mind could.
It's him. Her eyes glistened, her breath trembled. Her mind didn't dare to believe it, but her soul already knew. For the second time in her life, Alina felt at home.