Kieran
She looked like a wet sock that had been microwaved.
No... worse. She looked like a baby bat who flew into a windshield and was too proud to admit it.
And I wanted to laugh. I really did.
But the moment she stepped out of that cab this morning, with her face pale and puffy and her eyes barely holding focus, something in my chest locked up.
She was hunched, slow, grumpy, dragging her legs like the floor owed her money.
And I'd be lying if I said it didn't piss me off at first.
Not because she was miserable.
Because she made me wait.
Last night, I cooked enough food to feed two armies. Set the damn table. Checked the clock every ten minutes like a loser. And the woman didn't come home.
And then when I called? She picked up sounding like she was whispering from a wine cellar.
So yeah, I was ready to be mad. Ready to deliver a full-sarcasm welcome when she walked through that door.
But then she actually did.
And the moment I opened it, with a cup of tea in one hand and a half-smirk already loaded on my lips, she looked up at me like she wanted to crawl into the dirt.
Not embarrassed.
Not shy.
Just… wrecked.
Smudged black thing under her eyes. Puffy under eyes too. Hair that looked like she fought a cat on the way home. And under it all, a kind of quiet pain.
My smirk died instantly.
"Look who finally decided to come home," I said anyway. Default tone: teasing bastard. Couldn't help it.
She shoved past me with a glare, like she was using her last 3% battery to function. And then she saw the apartment.
I watched her expression twist from confusion to horror to something dangerously close to gratitude. But she didn't say anything. Not even when she disappeared into the bathroom.
I waited.
Heard the door close.
Waited some more.
She didn't come out.
Eventually, she did, rushed across the hall, barely looked at me, and locked herself in her room.
It's not like I wanted thanks.
But… something.
Still. I'd caught enough in those brief seconds: the way she walked like she had bricks tied to her ankles, how she kept pressing a hand to her abdomen, how her lips were cracked and dry like she hadn't drunk water since the Cold War.
I went into the bathroom after she came out and her smell was different.
Not perfume. Not shampoo.
Something metallic. My eyes scanned across and my wandering gaze fell on the bucket, I peeked and It hit me like a sniper shot.
The fabric looked like it was soaking in a crime scene.
Oh.
Ohhh.
Shit.
She's on her period.
I almost laughed, if I wasn't standing there dumbfounded like I'd just solved a federal case.
That explained everything. Right? The pale skin. The sudden retreat. The fact that she looked like she wanted to commit homicide and cry about it afterward.
I rubbed the back of my neck and glanced at the kitchen.
She probably hadn't eaten breakfast yet, had she?
Didn't even drink water, from the looks of it.
She probably hadn't had a proper meal. Or a single thing to comfort her miserable, cramping, hormonal self.
I could leave her be.
I should leave her be.
But now I couldn't stop picturing her curled up in bed like a dying shrimp.
"Goddamnit," I muttered, dragging a hand down my face as I stepped back into the kitchen.
Fine.
I'll cook.
She won't say thank you. She might even bite my hand off.
But she'll eat.
Because despite everything, I think she needs someone to care.
And it might as well be me.
Right.
Kina was bleeding out.
And I was standing there, staring at a cabinet full of seasonings like they were going to whisper a solution.
I opened the fridge.
Stared.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Still no answers.
I rubbed my jaw, scowled at the rice cooker like it had betrayed me, then muttered to myself, "What the hell do you even cook for a woman on her period?"
My stomach growled. I ignored it.
Alright, I'd seen enough war zones to know that soup usually fixed everything.
But not just any soup.
Something warm. Easy. Salty. Healing. Comforting. The kind of food that made you feel like your insides were being hugged. I racked my brain for what Mrs. Kim had shoved at me yesterday,
Kimchi stew.
Egg rolls.
Sweet anchovies.
And the side dishes she'd left in little labeled containers. I peeked inside. There was a tub of soy-braised potatoes. Something leafy. Fish cakes. Honestly, she'd gone off.
I could build something from this, right?
Maybe.
Probably.
No. Definitely. Because this wasn't about food anymore, it was a mission.
I grabbed my phone and leaned over the counter.
Opened Google like a criminal.
"Korean soup good for period cramps?"
Enter.
Scroll.
Kimchi jjigae.
Seaweed soup.
Porridge?
She didn't get to have the kimchi stew yesterday. Should I reheat it? No, make a fresh one. Use some of the pork. That was iron, right? Women needed iron when they were bleeding. Probably. I think. Hell, maybe she needed a goddamn IV drip.
I shook the thought away and went into full combat mode. Chop. Sizzle. Simmer. Toss. Taste.
It smelled like a healing spell in there. Steaming broth, hot sesame oil, garlic... fuck, the garlic. I put too much. No, wait. It was fine. She liked garlic. She didn't say it, but I saw the way she scraped it clean from that noodle bowl last week.
And then I stopped, spoon halfway to my mouth, and groaned because what the hell was I even doing?
I should've been resting.
I should've been planning.
I should've been thinking about Scorpion, the syndicate, the possibly new knives coming off my throat for fuck's sake.
Instead I was here… cooking soup for a girl who barely tolerated me… because she was on her period.
This was new.
This was… not who I was.
I glanced at the hallway toward her room, half-expecting her to appear like a ghost, see me playing house, and mock me into early retirement.
But she didn't.
The place stayed silent. Too silent.
And even though I wanted to pretend I didn't care...
I kind of did.
I really fucking did.
So I scooped the soup into a fresh ceramic bowl, arranged the side dishes like a Michelin star lunatic, and filled her water bottle with chilled water and a slice of lemon. Don't ask me why. It looked nice.
Then I stood there, arms crossed, staring at the tray.
"What the hell am I doing?"
Feeding her.
Like a simp.
Like a fucking domesticated wolfdog who'd lost his edge.
I hated this.
But
I wondered if she'd like some fruit after.