“I’m supervising,” I correct. I place a pot of water on the wood stove and light it, then settle into one of the mismatched chairs around the small table to wait.
When the fish is ready, he cooks two simply—one seasoned with herbs we found in the cabin’s stores and cooked over the fire, the other boiled in the water until it turns into a thick fatty stew. The smell makes my stomach growl audibly.
The fish is perfect—flaky and tender, seasoned just right. I make an embarrassing sound of appreciation around the first bite.
“Good?” Kier asks, amused.
“Amazing,” I manage around another mouthful. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“Twenty years of fending for yourself teaches you a few things.” He takes a bite of his own fish. “Trial and error, mostly. I’ve had some truly terrible meals.”
“I can’t cook at all,” I admit. “Pack life means there’s always someone else handling meals. I never learned.”
“I could teach you.”
The offer hangs between us, casual but somehow weighted. Teaching implies time together, a future beyond just surviving the next few days.
“I’d like that,” I say quietly.
We eat in comfortable silence, and I’m struck by how domestic this feels. Sharing a meal, talking about mundane things, the fire crackling softly in the background. It’s been so long since I’ve felt… peaceful.
Being Beta of the Shadowmist is a full-time job. There’s always someone needing my help, or some issue I need to solve. Rare are the days when I get to just be.
Which is why it’s even stranger that I’m in the middle of a life and death situation and feel the most peaceful I’ve been in years.
When we finish eating, Kier rummages through the cabin’s supplies and emerges with a deck of cards, worn but still intact.
“Go fish?” I ask, watching him pull the cards from their deck.
He snorts. “How about poker?”
“I don’t really know how to play. Never had much call for it in pack life.”
“I’ll teach you.” He shuffles the cards with practiced ease. “Fair warning though—I’m pretty good.”
“I’ll try to keep up.”
He starts with the basics—the different hands, how betting works, reading other players.
“So a flush beats a straight?” I ask, furrowing my brow as I stare at my cards.
“Yes, but a straight flush beats both.”
“This is complicated.”
He deals our first hand, patiently explaining each step. Iplay hesitantly, making obvious rookie mistakes—betting when I should fold, folding when I have decent hands. He wins easily, as expected.
“Not bad for a first try,” he says encouragingly. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
We play several more hands. I continue to ask him for guidance. He wins consistently, taking our small pot of dried raisins we’d plucked from a can of trail mix.
“You’re starting to catch on,” he says after I win a hand. “Natural instincts.”
“Really? I still feel like I’m just guessing.”
After about an hour of play, he’s won the vast majority of hands. I’m down to maybe a quarter of my original “chips”, but he’s looking pleased with his teaching skills.
“One more hand?” I suggest, looking at my dwindling stack. “Winner takes all?”
