The sun slanted through the tall windows of the St. Hunter household, pouring into the kitchen in long, golden bands. Dust motes drifted lazily through the light, turning the air into something almost visible—warm, alive. Outside, the estate was waking: guards changing shifts at the gates, water rippling softly in the pool, distant footsteps echoing across stone paths.
Inside, the kitchen breathed.
A pan hissed gently on the stove. Butter melted slowly, whispering as it pooled and spread. A knife rose and fell in steady rhythm against a wooden board—tap, tap, tap—precise and unhurried.
To Kaino, the kitchen was not just a room.
It was a sanctuary.
He was three years old—barely tall enough to see over the counter, barely strong enough to carry his own cup—but his eyes followed everything with a sharpness that did not belong to a child. He crouched near the island, fingers curled around the cool marble edge, chin resting just high enough to peek.
The air was thick with scent.
Garlic, crushed and blooming in heat.
Butter, rich and soft.
Something deeper—savory, layered, alive.
It made his chest feel tight.
This smell…
This is what being alive feels like.
Across the counter stood his father.
Keano St. Hunter.
White shirt rolled neatly at the forearms. Dark apron tied with practiced ease. His posture was relaxed, but every movement carried intention. When he chopped, his wrist stayed loose. When he paused, it was not hesitation—it was judgment.
He wasn't cooking.
He was deciding.
Kaino's gaze locked onto the knife.
The way it moved was hypnotic.
The carrot beneath it surrendered in perfect cubes, each piece uniform, clean, exact. The blade barely kissed the board before lifting again, as if gravity itself obeyed Keano's will. His weight shifted subtly from heel to toe, conserving energy without conscious thought.
Kaino leaned closer.
He doesn't rush, Kaino noticed.
He never rushes.
Every sound mattered.
Every pause meant something.
The pan flared briefly as ingredients met heat. Steam rose, curling like incense smoke in a temple. Keano stirred once—just once—then stepped back, letting the food speak.
To Kaino, it felt holy.
This is where miracles happen,
he thought.
A faint pulse stirred in his chest.
Observation initiated.
He didn't understand the words, not really. But the feeling was familiar—like his body leaning forward before his mind could catch up. His eyes tracked the angle of Keano's wrist, the timing between movements, the exact moment the flame was lowered.
He absorbed everything.
Behind him, a small wooden play kitchen sat abandoned. Pots, pans, and plastic vegetables scattered where he had left them earlier. Slowly, quietly, Kaino reached for one of the toy spoons and began to stir an empty pot.
He copied his father.
Same angle.
Same rhythm.
Same pause.
The spoon clacked uselessly against plastic, but that didn't matter.
Not yet, he told himself.
Soon.
Across the kitchen, small footsteps padded softly.
Kaia.
His twin sister—one minute older, one minute ahead—wandered through the room with unhurried curiosity. Her hair was slightly messy, her expression thoughtful in a way that felt unfair for someone so young.
She stopped beside the counter, stood on her toes, and sniffed the air.
Her nose wrinkled.
"Hm."
Kaino froze.
She leaned closer to a bowl resting near the edge of the counter, inhaled again, and frowned deeply.
"Papa," Kaia said seriously, her tiny voice cutting through the kitchen's quiet rhythm. "You put salt too early."
The knife stopped.
Keano glanced down, eyebrow lifting. "Did I?"
Kaia nodded, absolute in her conviction. "It's gonna pull the water out too fast."
Kaino's eyes widened.
She… smelled that?
Keano chuckled softly, more amused than offended. He dipped a spoon, tasted, then hummed thoughtfully.
"…You might be right," he admitted.
Kaia beamed.
Kaino clenched his fists.
Something twisted in his chest—not anger, not jealousy, but a sharp awareness.
She can tell already.
I can't… not yet.
A quiet system whisper brushed the edges of his awareness.
Observation: sibling sensory perception exceeds baseline.
Note: comparative growth variable detected.
He didn't understand the words—but he understood the feeling.
Not yet.
Keano adjusted the flame, added liquid to the pan, correcting the balance with effortless precision. He worked as if this weren't the kitchen of a vast estate staffed with private chefs, as if there weren't prepared meals waiting in warming drawers.
Because here—
This kitchen—
This was his.
From the doorway, Mirabel watched, leaning lightly against the frame. She held a cup of tea, steam curling around her fingers. Her eyes were tired—but warm. Proud.
"You're going to spoil them," she said softly.
Keano didn't look up. "I hope so."
She smiled. "You know they have chefs for this."
"I know." He stirred once more, then set the spoon down. "But this isn't about efficiency."
Kaia toddled over to Mirabel, tugging at her sleeve. "Mama, Papa cooks better when he's quiet."
Mirabel laughed under her breath. "Is that so?"
Kaia nodded gravely. "He listens more."
Kaino watched the exchange silently.
They talk to him like this,
he realized.
Not like he's a god.
Like he's just… Papa.
The idea felt strange.
Keano St. Hunter—the man Kaino had watched on screens in his past life, the unreachable peak, the legend—stood here barefoot in his own kitchen, correcting seasoning because his three-year-old daughter told him to.
This life is different, Kaino thought.
The pan was removed from heat. The aroma deepened, settled, matured.
Keano plated carefully, movements slowing as he finished. He wiped the rim clean with a practiced thumb, then turned.
"Kaino," he said gently. "Come here."
Kaino stiffened.
Slowly, he stood.
Tiny legs wobbling, he approached the counter, barely tall enough to rest his chin on the edge. Keano crouched slightly, bringing himself down to eye level.
"Do you like the smell?" Keano asked.
Kaino nodded.
His throat felt tight.
Keano smiled. "Good. Smell is the first taste."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Smell is the first taste.
Kaino breathed in deeply.
Garlic. Butter. Heat.
Existence.
Keano didn't offer him food—not yet. He only let him watch, let him learn. That restraint felt intentional, like a lesson wrapped in patience.
Across the room, Kaia climbed onto a chair, swinging her legs. "When can we eat?"
"When it's ready," Keano replied.
Kaia accepted that answer easily.
Kaino did too.
As the family gathered—Mirabel setting plates, Kaia humming softly, Keano finishing the dish—the kitchen filled with quiet life. No rush. No pressure. No audience.
Just warmth.
Kaino sat on the floor again, clutching his toy spoon, mimicking one last stir.
One day, he promised himself,
I won't pretend.
A faint system pulse answered him.
Skill acquisition pathway confirmed:
Observation → Simulation → Application.
He didn't understand the system.
But he understood the kitchen.
And in the golden light of the St. Hunter home, surrounded by warmth, family, and the quiet mastery of his father, Kaino knew—with a certainty that went deeper than words—
This was where he belonged.
This was where his life would begin.
And one day…
He would taste everything.
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