Across from me, Kina chewed like it was nothing. Like she wasn't currently ingesting solid chemical hazard. I watched in horror as she shoveled another bite into her mouth and barely flinched.
And then it clicked.
This wasn't her first war. Clearly.
That's why she was always eating cereal and instant noodles. She wasn't lazy, or maybe she was but she was also self-preserving. She knew she was a hazard. She'd made peace with her inability to cook and kept her body count low by staying away from the stove.
I shoved another bite of egg down my throat and forced a breath through my nose. No way in hell was I letting a breakfast beat me. I'd fought off trained killers with bullets in my side. I wasn't tapping out to scrambled shrapnel.
"Not bad," I lied, voice tight.
Kina raised a brow, clearly suspicious. "You're sweating."
"That's just flavor," I said, stabbing the eggs again. "Bold choice. Almost… volcanic."
She squinted. "You don't have to finish it, y'know."
"I do," I said, glaring at my plate like it had personally offended me. "You tried. I respect the effort. I just hope I don't regret it later."
She rolled her eyes and got up to wash the dishes, muttering something about not being her fault.
While she had her back turned, I leaned against the table and exhaled. My body felt musty as hell. I hadn't done a proper wash since I got here. Just weak cloth wash with little soap that left me feeling like a damp towel. My side had been too raw to risk much more, but before he left, Rocco gave the all-clear for light showers now as long as I managed to cover the area properly.
Still, the idea of lifting my arms above my head made me wince. I probably could do it myself… but maybe if Kina helped...
I snorted. Yeah. Imagine the look on her face if I asked her to wash my back.
She'd probably stab me with a toothbrush.
"Nah," I muttered under my breath, smirking to myself. "I got it."
But it wouldn't hurt to try...
And then I turned towards the kitchen. "Princess!"
She froze mid-scrub.
"That's not my name!" she snapped, storming back into the living room with soap still clinging to her fingers. "It's Kina! Kee-nah. Say it with me—Kee. Nah."
I raised a brow. "…You answered me, though."
She looked like she wanted to hurl the frying pan at my head.
Lovely.
I leaned back in my chair, watching her little soap-drenched tantrum with mild amusement as she walked back to the sink. She was cute when she was mad. All puffed cheeks and fire in her eyes like she was trying to scare me off. Newsflash, sweetheart, I eat threats for breakfast. Even burnt ones.
"So…" I started, still lounging. "Since you're in such a generous mood this morning…"
She turned halfway, still holding a dish rag like a damn weapon. The
"…wanna help me shower?"
The plate in her hand clinked against the sink. She blinked. Once. Twice.
I grinned. "I mean, you already fed me death. Might as well help me rinse off the aftermath."
Her jaw dropped. "Are you—what kind of—no!"
She darted back to scrubbing as if the act alone could wash my words out of existence. Her ears were red. Cute.
"Eh. Worth a shot," I muttered, pushing myself off the floor with a slow groan and a hand over my side. "I'll be in the bathroom then."
Her only reply was a strangled scoff.
I limped my way down the short hallway and stepped into the bathroom, letting the door click softly behind me.
It was the most decent in space. All off-white tiles and a curtain that looked like it had seen things. A squat little bathtub took up one side, barely deep enough for a soak, with a hand shower dangling over the faucet. A small toilet was tucked in the other far corner of the space like it had it's own story to tell but still good enough.
There was a bucket and stool combo in the center for sitting and scrubbing, which suited me just fine since standing for too long still pulled at my stitches.
I peeled my t-shirt off first, slowly, wincing when the cotton dragged across the healing skin on my side. The eleven-day-old wound was healing better than expected, no swelling, no ugly discoloration, but the skin still felt tight and sensitive like it was stitched with fire thread. I let the shirt drop and unwrapped the bandage carefully, hissing as air hit the raw edges.
Pants next. I shimmied out of them with far too much effort and stood there naked, catching sight of myself in the mirror.
Not my first time getting shot. Not my worst scar either.
But it was the first time I'd had to heal in an apartment that looked like a thrift store threw up inside it. My place in Minato had marble floors and heated towel racks. Here? I was lucky the water pressure didn't scream when I turned it on.
As I stood there ass-naked and trying to psych myself into turning on the shower, I stared at the faucet like it owed me money. It let out this low groan when I twisted it, like the pipes were pissed I disturbed their eternal slumber. The water sputtered, then gushed, then… started making a sound that could only be described as a dying walrus choking on soap.
Jesus.
I let it run, stepping back, because honestly I wasn't trying to get a heart attack from freezing water today. I grabbed the small bucket and poured a test scoop over my shoulder, muscles twitching at the contact.
It wasn't terrible. Just kind of pathetic. Like a shower that wanted to be taken seriously but couldn't get past puberty.
I sank onto the tiny stool with a grunt, gingerly shifting so I wouldn't rip open anything I wasn't supposed to. My hand skimmed the edge of my covered bandage, fingers light.
It itched. Not the kind that meant something was wrong, just that annoying "you're healing, congrats" kind of itch. Still, I could feel the bruise beneath it, the ghost of pain humming quietly under my skin.
I looked around for soap. Found it. And then immediately regretted looking.
The bar was half-melted into some sad little dish that had definitely seen mold in the last week. I picked it up like it was contaminated, sniffed it—lemon? Flowers?—and grimaced. Whatever. I was already here, naked and resigned. May as well make the most of it.
Then, I caught my own reflection again in the mirror.
A smirk tugged at my mouth.
I looked good, honestly. Even with the scar and the bags under my eyes. I was still a fine piece of work. Kina hadn't seen me shirtless yet, and something about the idea made my smirk deepen.
What would she do if she walked in right now? Probably combust.
The mental image was way too satisfying.
Not that I was gonna make it easy for her.
I grabbed the stool, shifted to adjust the angle of the mirror, purely out of curiosity, and paused. Thought about what Rocco would say if he saw me like this. Probably snort and call me dramatic. Which, fair.
I grabbed the bucket again.
Knock knock.
My head jerked toward the door.
"Kieran?" came Kina's voice, muffled but close.
I blinked.
Oh?
I smirked.