Hiro continued chopping, but his voice took on a thoughtful tone. "It shocks me that he doesn't want to share. Usually there's never been a woman that he's met, or I've met, where we wouldn't share her. But I understand too."
“Why do you understand?”
He paused, and his knife stilled on the cutting board. "I understand because. . .I had just recently met someone that I was absolutely planning on not sharing with Kenji."
His voice had changed—gone quiet, heavy with grief.
Something happened to her?
Hiro started chopping again, but this time the movements were hard. Intense. The knife slammed against the board with more force than necessary.
I wanted to know more about her, about what happened, about the rising pain I could see etched into every line of his body.
But I didn't.
Some wounds were too fresh to poke at.
An upbeat reggae song came on—something with a lighter beat, something that shifted the air in the kitchen.
I started swaying slightly to the music, and after a moment, Hiro's shoulders loosened.
The aggressive chopping softened.
Time passed.
We all found our rhythm.
We both laughed, and the sound mixed with the reggae music in a way that made the kitchen feel warm.
I moved around, giving the guard further directions for the banana bread—greasing the pan, checking the oventemperature. Once Hiro finished with the potatoes, I showed him how to start on the hollandaise sauce as I cooked them.
"Gentle heat," I demonstrated over a double boiler. "You're creating an emulsion, so if it gets too hot, it'll break. Slow and steady."
When "Is This Love" by Bob Marley came on, Hiro started singing loudly, and I grinned and joined in.
And the fun continued.
We moved around the kitchen like we'd done this a hundred times—me teaching, him learning, the guard putting the banana bread batter into the oven, all of us swaying to reggae music that seemed to ease any tension in the air.
We chatted in between cooking. I was surprised by how much Hiro knew about reggae. He named artists I'd forgotten about, mentioned albums I hadn't heard in years.
Then in one moment, there were several beeps from one of my guard's watches. He checked it. Worry streaked across his face, and then he looked at me. “The Roar is calling.”
"Oh shit." I froze.
Hiro looked up from the pot. "What’s wrong?"
"I'mwell pastmy curfew. . .like. . .probably hours. . .Reo wanted me back with Kenji. All types of time has passed."
"I've got it." Hiro waved the guard away, lifted his own watch, and pressed a button. "Reo. This is Hiro. I'm in the kitchen with the Tiger. Don't worry. You go back to sleep. I've got her and I'll make sure she safely heads back to Kenji."
A pause, then Reo's groggy voice came. "Okay. Thanks, Hiro."
Another pause hit and then beeps sounded again.
I quirked my brows.
Reo’s voice rose from the watch. "By the way, what are you two doing in the kitchen?"
