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Naia started on the next carrot.
“You find joy in cooking,” she said.
He rinsed rice in the sink, his long sleeves rolled up to his forearm. “Yeah, I find it relaxing.”
Naia couldn’t possibly understand his logic, given if she was a mortal, she’d be in the emergency room right now, getting the tip of her finger sewed back on. Their fragility genuinely stressed her out.
“You come home from a long day of work and find joy in cooking?” she asked, to be sure she understood.
“I used to cook with my mom when I was younger. I didn’t want to, thinking it would be boring, but when I was nine, I had a traumatic accident. I wasn’t in a good mental headspace, so she taught me to shut my brain off and move my hands. It was a way to heal.”
Heal.
The word dissolved straight through Naia and settled in the pit of her soul. The concept was alien and struck her with pure curiosity as she reverted to his mention of trauma.
“Did it work?” she asked.
He shut the water off and dried his hands. “Yeah, I learned if I don’t make the time to slow my thoughts and allow myself to process the trauma, it will plague me.”
Like a blight.
Naia gripped the handle of the knife tighter. She’d spent lifetimes corralling her darkest memories and shutting them away. Submissive to the fear of reliving the suffering they’d brought her, while doing nothing to mend herself.
“I can teach you how to cook if you’d like?” Ronin prompted.
She lifted her head up to look at him. His invitation was as if he were tossing her a lifeline to grab onto.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d love that.”
During dinner, Naia mentally noted the juicy, savory seasonings of the steak, and how it practically fell apart in her mouth. Blended with the sweet glaze on the carrots and the palate refresher which the rice provided, the dinner was wonderful.
They cleaned the kitchen at a comfortable pace with the sound of music playing in the background, from what Ronin referred to as a sound system. Apparently, the music fed from his phone to the speaker. The way the music magically transferred to the speaker had enough merit to make him a witch, but his excuse was something called Bluetooth.
They went their separate ways afterwards.
She enjoyed the hot water of the shower beating against her scalp.
After an hour of basking in the steamed bathroom, she emerged to find Ronin unfolding a quilt on the couch.
“You can have the bed,” he told her.
He wore sweatpants baggy in the crotch area, and a loose t-shirt that hid his lean physique. Similar to the one he gave her to sleep in. The hem of his shirt came to the tops of her thighs, but thankfully, he’d given her a pair of leggings, as if he knew her height in the shirt would barely cover her skin.
Naia worked her wet hair into a bun and said, “No, you can have it. I’ll take the couch.”
He strolled into his kitchen and dug around in a cupboard. “It’s fine. Really.”
When he reappeared, she noted the lasting dark circles around his eyes, and the glass vial in his hand. His hair was down for once. Black strands framing his face.
Ronin slid open the glass door, flipped the light on, and stepped out onto a small balcony, beckoning Naia to follow with a slight movement of his head.
She secured her bun with Wren and padded across the room.
They were stories high and beyond them was the city in the thicket of the night.
Chills zipped down Naia’s spine, feeling too exposed in the darkness this way. Marina could materialize from it at any moment.
Ronin leaned his arms on the railing and uncorked the vial.
