The world moves again.
Not violently this time. Not like the sharp chaos of birth or the overwhelming brightness of the hospital. This movement is gentler—rocking, swaying, steady. A rhythm carried by arms that know exactly how to hold something precious.
Kaino does not understand the idea of home.
But he feels the difference.
The air smells different—less sterile, more alive. Leather. Fabric. Faint traces of spice clinging to clothing. The hum of an engine vibrates through his tiny body as he's secured carefully, wrapped snug and warm.
Every bump in the road sends a small jolt through him, and each one reminds him of something simple and profound.
I'm going somewhere.
Across from him, another presence shifts.
Kaia.
Even without sight, even without words, he knows her. She is close—always just a breath away. Her small sounds are softer than his, her movements slower, but constant. Steady. As if she belongs to calm itself.
She was born first.
One minute older.
One minute ahead.
The thought doesn't bother him.
We arrived together, he thinks.
That's what matters.
A voice drifts down to him—warm, melodic.
"Are they sleeping?" Mirabel asks softly..
Keano answers just as quietly. "Kaia is. Kaino's pretending."
A faint pressure touches his forehead—gentle, careful. A kiss.
Kaino stills instinctively.
Mother, he realizes.
That's my mother.
The word settles strangely in his mind.
Heavy. Sacred.
In his past life, it had been an idea. A memory blurred by time and distance. Something lost early, something never fully reclaimed.
But now—
She's here.
Her warmth.
Her voice.
Her presence.
Beautiful—not just in face, but in feeling. In the way she leans closer without realizing it. In the way her breath catches every time one of the twins makes a sound.
She is real.
And she is his.
The Gates
The car slows.
Then stops.
There's a pause—a shift in atmosphere.
New sounds filter in. Footsteps. Voices outside. The faint clink of metal.
A deep mechanical hum follows.
The gates open.
Even as a newborn, even with blurred vision and unfocused senses, Kaino feels it—the sheer space around him expanding. The air opens up. The world grows bigger.
They pass through.
If he could see clearly, he would understand.
The St. Hunter estate stretches wide behind tall iron gates, guarded and pristine. Stone paths. Manicured gardens. Water shimmering in the distance—a pool catching the sun like polished glass. Security posted discreetly, respectfully, as if guarding something more valuable than wealth..
This place is not just a house.
It is a domain.
The car rolls to a smooth stop beneath a covered entrance. Doors open. Fresh air rushes in—clean, expensive, touched by greenery and sky.
"Welcome home," someone murmurs.
Hands lift Kaino again, careful and practiced.
He's carried inside, the world tilting slightly as he passes beneath high ceilings and soft lights.
The house breathes.
Wood. Stone. Warm colors. Quiet elegance.
The kind of place designed not to impress loudly, but to endure.
So this is… home, he thinks.
For the first time in either life, the word feels right.
Too Much, Yet Not Enough
Kaino's senses drift over everything in fragments.
Footsteps echo faintly.
Fabric rustles.
Soft voices overlap.
"Nursery's ready."
"The twins' room gets the morning light."
"Chef, welcome back."
Chef.
The word registers.
They call him Chef… even here.
His father—Keano St. Hunter—moves through the space with quiet authority, yet something about him is different now. Slower. Softer. His steps lack the razor-edge intensity of competition kitchens. His shoulders loosen when he looks down at the twins.
This is not the world's greatest chef.
This is a father.
The twins' room is calm. Spacious. Bathed in gentle light. Two cribs side by side.
Everything prepared down to the smallest detail.
Too perfect.
Too complete.
And yet—
Something feels… strange.
Kaino senses it before he understands it.
Smells drift through the air.
Food.
Prepared food.
Complex. Layered. Professional.
His tiny brow furrows.
Why…?
Voices answer the question outside his awareness.
"The chefs have already prepped meals for the week," a staff member says. "Light dishes, easy on Mirabel."
Mirabel hesitates. "Keano, you didn't have to—"
"I know," Keano replies calmly. "But you're recovering. And they're here now."
A pause.
"And?" Mirabel teases gently.
"And I don't need to prove anything at home."
Kaino absorbs the words without fully grasping them.
But the irony settles deep.
There are chefs…
In the house of the best chef in the world.
The thought sparks something small, almost amused.
Even legends rest, he realizes.
Even gods don't cook every meal.
The world doesn't collapse if the knife is set down.
That lesson—unspoken, quiet—lodges itself somewhere deep.
First Night
The day fades.
Light softens. Shadows stretch. The house grows quieter, though it never truly sleeps.
Kaino lies on his back, swaddled snugly. His body feels heavy, pleasantly so. Full. Warm. Safe.
Across from him, Kaia sleeps soundly.
She barely moves.
She trusts the world already.
You're brave in your own way, he thinks, watching her tiny chest rise and fall.
A presence returns.
Mirabel.
She sits between the cribs, exhaustion etched into her posture, yet her eyes shine with something fierce and unbreakable. Her fingers brush Kaia's cheek, then hover—hesitating—before resting lightly on Kaino's chest.
His heartbeat flutters beneath her touch.
"Oh," she whispers. "You're still awake."
Kaino doesn't cry. Doesn't squirm.
He simply is.
Keano appears behind her, setting something down quietly. He doesn't speak at first. Just watches.
"They're perfect," Mirabel says softly. "Both of them."
Keano nods. "They are."
Silence stretches—comfortable, intimate.
Then, quietly: "I was afraid," Mirabel admits.
"Of what?"
"That I wouldn't know how to do this."
Keano's hand rests on her shoulder. "You already are."
Kaino listens.
Not to the words—but to the truth behind them.
These two are learning together.
Just like him.
A Baby's Understanding
Later, when the house settles fully into night, Kaino's awareness drifts in and out. He can't see clearly. Can't think fully.
But he feels.
A home that doesn't threaten to disappear.
A mother whose presence soothes without effort.
A father who exists not as an unreachable idol—but as someone who stays.
And a sister.
Always nearby.
One minute older.
One minute ahead.
This life is different, he thinks drowsily.
This life has roots.
As sleep pulls him under, one final thought lingers—simple, pure, and unshakable.
I was born into warmth.
I will grow into fire.
The St. Hunter household rests beneath the quiet watch of night. Guards stand at their posts. The pool reflects the moon. The world outside waits.
Inside, two newborns sleep.
And for the first time, Kaino St. Hunter is truly home.