Kiara
By six, I was up, wandering the kitchen. Sleep had slipped past me, and when it bothered to show up, it dragged along a hundred questions. Every creak in the hallway rolled through my mind, keeping me wide awake.
Every look. Every comment.
There was no chance I'd just lie in bed and stew—definitely not with everyone's eyes on me this morning, or whatever that was last night. And there was no way I'd wait around hoping someone else would feed me.
Not after how things went.
So I stood in the middle of this way-too-perfect kitchen, doing a slow turn, looking around. Marble counters gleamed. The appliances all matched, shiny and new, and the cabinets looked barely touched—like someone just set it all up for a magazine shoot. The fridge hummed quietly, sounding like it was keeping secrets.
"Alright," I muttered, half to myself. "Show me what you've got."
Cabinet after cabinet, I checked the supplies, moving quietly. Eggs. Bread—really good bread. Fresh veggies. Plenty of spices. Good coffee, sealed tight in a jar. Butter. Milk. Not bad.
I rolled up my sleeves and got moving.
Pretty soon, I had earphones in and soft music playing—my mother's kind of music, the stuff she'd hum around the stove. The longer I cooked, the less foreign everything felt. Chopping. Stirring. Onions hissing when they hit the pan.
Memory settled in with me.
My mother's laugh. The way she'd tease me about too much salt, pretending it was a disaster. Her gentle nudges to fix my technique.
I couldn't help smiling. I missed her.
Cooking was my way of bringing her here, at least for a while.
By the time I started setting plates out, the kitchen smelled like home. I wasn't doing anything fancy—just real food that felt comforting. Scrambled eggs with onions and peppers, toast with melty butter, sausages crisp from the pan, fruit cut up neat, and coffee that filled the air with its warmth.
It all looked balanced—inviting, somehow. Clean.
As I set down the last plate, I felt someone watching.
Across the way, Blake leaned in his doorway, the door behind him open. He wore his uniform sharp—the blazer and white shirt, tie just loose enough to look rebellious, shoes polished. His hair was a mess, but in a way that you know took effort. He studied me with that same look from last night—a mix of curiosity and something else I couldn't pin down.
And then, as if on cue, there it was. That smirk.
I barely had time to process it before footsteps hit the stairs.
Alfred.
He paused halfway down, eyes flicking from me, to the food, right back to me—then smiled.
"You didn't have to make breakfast," he said, coming into the kitchen.
His feet said otherwise, though. I raised an eyebrow as he came closer.
"You seem pretty eager to eat, though," I shot back, taking the seat next to him.
He grinned, trying not to.
Blake closed his door, walking to the dining table and dropped into the chair across from me. A moment later, Dillon rushed in, backpack straps in a mess, looking half put-together in his own uniform—sweater, shirt, tie crooked, socks not even matching.
He slid in by Blake, unusually quiet. Alfred picked up a fork and tried the eggs. His eyebrows shot up.
"Wow," he said, chewing, then diving in for another bite. "I didn't know you could cook like this."
I just shrugged, smiling. "Guess you know now. You never asked."
He laughed, then grabbed some more.
Blake and Dillon ate in silence, but Blake's eyes kept drifting. First to Alfred, then to me, back to Alfred, and then lingering way too long on me.
Alfred noticed.
He cleared his throat.
"Blake, can you drop Dillon at school today? I want to show Kiara around and make sure she gets settled."
Dillon froze. Then whipped his head toward Alfred.
"No!" Dillon startled everyone.
It shot out so fast and loud. Alfred blinked, tried to reach out across the table.
"It's alright, champ. Just for—"
Dillon jerked away.
"No," he repeated, voice climbing. "You never do this for any nurse. Why are you doing it for her? Why does it have to cost me?"
Everything stopped. Alfred slid his hand back, slow. Blake leaned back, clearly interested in the drama.
Blake added, smooth as ever: "Yeah, Alfred. Why her?"
His tone sounded casual, but his stare wasn't. Not at all.
Alfred took a breath, trying to stay calm.
"I've never hired a nurse at night before, and this week is insane. Kiara needs a proper intro."
He folded his napkin, stood up.
"But if you're that set on it," he said to Dillon, giving Blake zero attention, "I'll drive you."
Dillon softened, slipping off his chair. Alfred rested a hand on his shoulder as they headed for the door. Just before leaving, Alfred looked back at me.
"I'll be right back."
Then the door clicked shut, and they were gone.
It got quiet. Just me and Blake left.
He didn't move or say anything. Just watched.
My stomach knotted a little. Hopefully he had somewhere to be—and soon.
Then my phone rang. Finally, some luck.
Quin.
Talk about timing.
I stood up, calm as I could. "Excuse me."
I walked back into the kitchen, Blake's stare following me the whole way.
What is it with him?
I answered the call in a low voice.
"Quin," I breathed, just above a whisper.
And for the first time that morning, I felt the tension start to ease.