“Yes.” The guard went to work, and I continued to monitor Hiro’s potato cutting.
However, the irony of all this did hit me. This morning, I'd left the Dragon to outline book chapters, make some quick tea, and slip back into Kenji's bed before he woke.
Simple.
Quiet.
Productive.
Now I was standing in a chef's kitchen about to make Eggs Benedict and banana bread with the Dragon's brother—the same man who'd held a knife to my throat while half-asleep.
The same man whose back was covered in tattoos that told stories of drowning and struggle.
The same man who smelled like sake and exhaustion and looked at me like I was the first kind thing to happen to him in weeks.
I should have been back in Kenji's arms by now.
Instead, I was here.
Choosing this.
And the strangest part?
I felt at home.
My hands moved automatically, reaching for the mixing bowl, checking the oven temperature, organizing ingredients. This was my element. Words and food—they were the two things I'dalways understood, the two ways I knew how to connect with people.
I'd interviewed strangers over shared meals. I'd cooked for sources who wouldn't talk until they trusted me and had my specially baked donut in their hands. Food was a language I spoke fluently, and right now, I believed that Hiro needed that language more than he needed anything else.
The knife at my throat was already becoming a story I'd process later.
Right now, I was cooking.
And somehow, that felt exactly right.
Soon the guard connected the radio, and Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" filled the kitchen.
Hiro's face lit up. "I love this song."
“Hell yeah. How could you not? This is a classic.”
We smiled at each other, and I started swaying slightly to the beat as I gathered the rest of the ingredients.
The guard who'd helped in the pantry stepped forward. "Do you need me to do anything?"
"Absolutely." I gestured to the bananas. "Take off your jacket, roll up your sleeves. You're on banana bread duty."
He looked genuinely excited as he shrugged out of his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. "I'll do anything you need, Tiger."
I blinked at his using my nickname and then slowly walked him through mashing the bananas, measuring flour, and the importance of not overmixing.
Meanwhile, Hiro was getting into a rhythm with the potatoes. His cuts became more even with each slice.
Some time passed.
Once I was sure the guard had everything on point with the banana bread, I headed back over to Hiro. “How are we doing?”
“Almost done.”
