The kitchen's warmth faded into the quiet thrum of evening outside Hearth & Heaven. Larethian's sky was a velvet canvas of violet and gold, with twin moons beginning their slow ascent. Lanterns flickered to life along the cobbled streets, glowing softly with arcane sigils—each one marking a district blessed by one of the city's ancient patron spirits.
Inside, Kael stood at the rear counter, sleeves rolled, wrist deep in a mixture of ground flame root, clover starch, and saffron dust. A new stew simmered over the hearth—a subtle experiment with a base of bone marrow and black lotus vinegar. It hissed like it had a will of its own.
Behind him, the foxkin mercenary-turned-volunteer hovered near the shelves.
"You're too quiet, warrior-chef," Ryn said, arms folded, leaning against a wine rack. "You gonna let me help, or just stare at your ingredients like they owe you money?"
Kael didn't look up. "You're not qualified to handle spicewine glaze. One misstep, and the stew curdles."
"Oh?" she purred. "And what am I qualified for?"
Her voice slinked across the room like smoke.
Kael didn't flinch—but his hand slowed on the stirring spoon.
Ryn stepped closer, her hips swaying with practiced grace. "You've got the hands of a killer. But the eyes of a man pretending to be asleep. Which one are you, Kael?"
He set the spoon down and finally turned to her.
"I'm a man trying to feed my daughter," he said. "And build something that isn't made of blood."
There was a long silence between them. Then, she stepped forward again—closer this time, until only inches separated them.
"I wasn't always a mercenary," Ryn said softly, her golden eyes searching his. "My clan was burned out by daemonkind. I survived because I learned how to kill first, kiss second. But this place…" she looked around at the warm lighting, the bubbling pots, the scent of cinnamon bark and roasting meat. "This place smells like… something else. Like safety."
Kael's voice was low. "Stay. If you want something different."
Ryn's lips curled into a half-smile. Then, with surprising gentleness, she reached up and ran her fingers through the stubble on his jaw.
"You gonna kiss me if I stay?" she asked, teasing.
Kael's answer was a slow, rough kiss that silenced her smirk. Their mouths met with heat—unrushed but firm—his hand slipping into her fiery hair, her body pressing against his. She moaned softly into his mouth, her hands finding his shoulders, gripping tight as if bracing against a storm.
He pulled back just enough to whisper against her lips. "No games, Ryn."
Her breath was shaky, pupils blown wide. "Not tonight."
She leaned in again, their mouths tangling, and Kael felt it—not lust alone, but a hunger neither of them wanted to name yet.
But a small voice broke the spell.
"Papa?"
They both turned.
Lyra stood at the doorway in her nightgown, holding a stuffed bunny with a missing ear. Her silver hair was tangled from sleep.
Kael blinked. "Lyra?"
"I had a bad dream…" she murmured.
Ryn stepped back quickly, clearing her throat. Kael moved swiftly, kneeling beside Lyra and scooping her into his arms.
"It's okay, little flame," he said gently, brushing her hair. "I'm here. Nothing's going to hurt you."
Behind him, Ryn watched the scene in silence—something unreadable softening her expression.
Later that night, as Lyra curled beside her mother and Kael returned to the now-quiet kitchen, he found a hand-written note tucked under a jar of moonflower spice.
"I'll take the job. Don't think this is over, Chef.
– Ryn"
Kael exhaled slowly, the taste of her still lingering on his lips.