I scrub my hands over my face and try to refocus on the screen. This is ridiculous. I’m acting like a teenager with his first crush instead of a grown man who should have better control over his thoughts.
The doorbell rings.
I glance at the clock on my monitor. Two o’clock. I’m not expecting anyone, and Kiera isn’t supposed to be here until six.
I push back from my desk and head to the front door, curiosity overriding my frustration with my inability to work. When I open it, Kiera is standing on my doorstep with a reusable grocery bag in her arms.
My heart does that flutter thing it always does when I see her. She’s wearing dark jeans and a light blue t-shirt that brings out her eyes, her pink-streaked hair loose around her shoulders today instead of in its usual ponytail. She looks nervous and determined at the same time, and I have no idea why she’s here four hours early.
“Hey,” I say, stepping aside to let her in. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi.” She walks past me into the entryway, clutching the grocery bag like it might try to escape. “I know I’m early. I hope that’s okay. I just—I needed extra time for prep today.”
I close the door and follow her toward the kitchen. “Extra time?”
She sets the bag on the counter and turns to face me, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wanted to make you something special. To thank you for yesterday. For coming with me to look at the apartment, and for knowing all the right questions to ask, and for—” She stops, takes a breath. “You made a big deal less scary, and I wanted to do something nice for you.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest. “Kiera, you don’t have to thank me. I was happy to help.”
“I know I don’thaveto.” She starts unpacking the grocery bag, pulling out containers and packages I don’t immediately recognize. “But I want to. So I did some research last night, and I found out that Koreans make galbi for celebrations and for people who are important to them. It’s a special occasion dish.” She glances at me, and there’s vulnerability in her expression. “And you are. Important, I mean. So I’m making you galbi tonight.”
I’m not sure what to say. No one’s ever made me a celebratory dish before. My parents never even took me out to eat when I got the lead role in Kid Logic. They always thought it was just a hobby. Kiera spending hours researching Korean food and coming early to prepare something special just for me—it feels intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
“You’re making me galbi?” My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
“If you want it.” She’s pulling out what looks like short ribs now, and I can see they’ve already been scored. “I know you’re probably busy with editing, and I promise I’ll stay out of your way. The marinade just needs a few hours in the fridge before I can grill the meat, so I came early to get it ready.”
“Kiera.” I move closer, leaning against the counter beside her. “That’s—thank you. Really. I love galbi. But you don’t need to do all this just because I looked at an apartment with you.”
“It wasn’tjustlooking at an apartment.” She stops unpacking and meets my eyes. “River, I had no idea what I was doing. I would have missed half the things you noticed. And you asked all those questions like you actually cared whether or not the place was safe for me.” Her voice softens. “That meant something. A lot, actually. So let me do this, okay?”
The sincerity in her expression does something to me. Makes my stomach drop and my throat thick. Is she so used to people not caring, not showing up, not sticking around, that basic decency feels extraordinary to her?
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Thank you. This is really thoughtful.”
A small smile breaks across her face, and she goes back to unpacking the groceries. “Now go. Get back to your editing. I know you have deadlines.”
I don’t move. “Do you need help?”
“No. I’ve got this.” She waves a hand toward the hallway. “Go work. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? Because I can chop vegetables or measure ingredients or?—”
“River.” She gives me a pointed look. “I’m trying to do something nice for you. That doesn’t work if you’re in here doing all the prep work.”
“I could keep you company?”
“You’re impossible.” But she’s smiling now, shaking her head. “Fine. You can stay. But you’re not just standing there watching me. If you’re going to be in the kitchen, you’re going to help.”
“Deal.” I push off from the counter. “Put me to work.”
She considers for a moment, then points to a bag of green onions. “You can slice those. Thin, on a diagonal.”
I grab the green onions and a cutting board, settling in beside her at the counter. She’s pulling ingredients from the fridge now—soy sauce, brown sugar, sesame oil—and measuring them intoa large bowl. Her movements are confident, precise. She’s done this kind of prep work before.
“So,” I say, starting on the green onions, “how long did you research Korean cooking last night?”
“A couple of hours.” She doesn’t look up from the bowl where she’s whisking together ingredients. “I wanted to make sure I got it right. Galbi is supposed to be this really special dish, and I didn’t want to mess it up.”
