She was already moving, grabbing a clean towel and running it under the tap.
“Fuck.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I got lost for a minute.”
“No. No. That’s fine.” Chef Bunzo turned to me. "Are you okay? Is everything alright?"
For some dumbass reason, I couldn't answer.
My hands were shaking.
In fact, my whole body was shaking.
And it shouldn’t have been that way.
I’d seen the damn pyre hours ago. I’d made peace with what I saw and the violence of this new world that I’d stepped into.
I was stronger than this.
Get it together. Right fucking now.
The woman gave the cloth to the Chef and then he pressed the cold, wet towel against my burned fingers. “Should I call the island’s doctor?”
“No.” I hissed at the contact. “I’m. . .fine.”
"Is there anything I can get you?" Chef Bunzo asked, still holding my hand with the towel. "Anything at all?"
I opened my mouth to say something, but the words wouldn't come. Because apparently, I wasn't fine. I was falling apart in the middle of his beautiful kitchen, surrounded by ruined food and worried faces.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
And then a deep voice sounded from the doorway. "Everyone leave."
I looked up.
Hiro stood at the threshold, broad frame blocking the light from the hallway. No shirt—just dark pants and bare feet, like he'd been in the middle of something when he sensed trouble with me.
His eyes swept the scene—the smoking pot, the scattered staff, Chef Bunzo holding the wet towel pressed to my burned fingers.
Then his gaze locked on mine.
And in them, I saw recognition.
Understanding.
The bone-deep knowledge of someone who had walked through his own fires and come out scarred.
"Did you fucking hear me?” Hiro put his gaze on the chef. “Everyone out."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried absolute authority.
Chef Bunzo left me with the towel and nodded. "Keep the ice on those fingers."
The staff moved quickly, until one by one, they filed out through the side door, casting worried glances over their shoulders.
Fuck. That was embarrassing.
Within seconds, the kitchen was empty.
Just me and Hiro. And the haze of smoke still hanging in the air near the ruined oxtail in its blackened pot. Hiro looked back at me. “How are you?”
