I consider my answer, my gaze going to the partially opened door as I realize the snoring stopped. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, Yuki. See you soon.” I hang up, unsure what else to say.
He will take one look at my face and realize the truth. He always knows. It’s his job to cater to everything I need without asking, and that came with an understanding. He sees my life more clearly than I do. I’ve watched him bite his tongue around Faiz, even as annoyance flashed in his eyes. I don’t know what he thinks about our relationship, but he’s always the one who pours me a drink and sits by my side when I can’t sleep because of it. On the nights when I would sit up, waiting for Faiz to come home, knowing what he was doing, Yuki was always right there. In a world where friendships come with expectations and strings, ours has none, and I’m grateful.
Maybe it’s an odd relationship to have, but I can trust in Yuki—not just because he is paid to be at my side, but because he’s earned my trust over the years and proven his loyalty many times over. In some sad way, we have become each other’s family.
Pocketing my phone, I head out to see Nikko in the kitchen, chugging water. “Morning,” he grumbles with a deep, raspy voice that ignites something within me.
“Good morning,” I respond curtly. “Thank you for letting me stay last night. My phone is charged, so I called my assistant. He should be here soon.”
He nods as he puts the glass down. “No worries. Do you wantbreakfast while you wait? I have to carb load, so I eat a lot every day.” He shrugs.
I hesitate. I shouldn’t because it could complicate things. “Sure,” I say as I walk into the kitchen. “Do you need any help?”
He looks me over with a little smirk. “Have you ever cooked before?”
“Um, well, no,” I answer. “Honestly, I’ve never really been in a kitchen.”
He chuckles. “Figured as much. Take a seat. I’m a great cook, so I don’t need your help anyway.” He grabs a chopping board. “Go,” he orders, pointing at a chair.
You bet your ass I sit and prop my chin on my hand as I watch him gather ingredients. “A great cook, huh? Cocky much?”
He smiles. “Someone told me to be proud about what I’m good at.”
“Now who would say that?” I flirt. It’s meaningless but fun.
“A smart man.” He winks as he grabs a bowl and a pan.
Hiding my smile behind my hand, I settle back to watch him cook. He chops the ingredients with deft movements before tossing them into the pan, shuffling around the kitchen with practiced ease. “When did you learn to cook?”
“My dad is shitty at it, so I taught myself when I was pretty young. I didn’t want to eat burnt food, so trial and error were my best friends. It was a necessity at first, but I learned to enjoy cooking. It’s soothing, and I like feeding the people I love good food,” he explains as he tosses something else in a pan. “You don’t use the kitchen?”
“I have a chef,” I reply, refusing to be ashamed about it. I could make excuses, like I don’t have the time or energy, but the truth is, cooking and eating are things I need to survive, not something I want to do. I have the money, so I took that necessity from my platter to free up more time for things I do enjoy. “My mom loved to cook, but I guess I didn’t get that gene.”
“It’s not for everyone.” He shrugs as he watches me. “You can make coffee, right?”
I nod, and he gestures at the machine. “Go ahead, make yourself useful.”
Laughing, I slide down and walk over, turning on the appliance then adding beans. “Milk or sugar?” I call.
“Black, thanks.”
“Psychopath,” I tease as I slide his over and take mine to my seat, blowing the milky top.
I’m beginning to understand Nikko more. He likes simplicity—black coffee, straight alcohol, and candid conversation. He’s very to the point, but there is something beautiful in that.
Not five minutes later, a plate is slid before me, heaped with eggs, chicken sausage, toast, potatoes, and mushrooms. “Um, that’s a lot of food.”
“Eat what you want. Sorry, it’s my usual serving size,” he says as he digs in, scarfing it down.
I watch him eat for a moment before I pick up my knife and fork, carefully cut the food, and take a bite. I’m not a picky eater, even though most people call me a picky princess, but I’ve never taken more than a few bites of a meal. I either get bored, don’t have the time, or simply don’t like it. When the flavors explode in my mouth, I eat quickly—something not even Michelin-star chefs could make happen.
“Good?” he asks, covering his mouth. “It’s probably not as good as your chef. Sorry.”
“It’s amazing,” I tell him. I dig in and eat as much as I can. When I’m full, I sit back, and he eyes my plate. I push it over, since his is empty. “Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” He makes quick work of my leftovers, polishing off my plate, then sits back.
“I mean it. It was really good. You’re talented,” I say as I sip my coffee.
