Kael and Freya ate in silence at first. Freya remained poised, her back straight, her expression unreadable. But Kael kept the conversation light, easy.
"This is really good," he said, taking another bite. "Didn’t expect you to cook like this. Where’d you learn?"
Freya chewed thoughtfully before answering. "Picked it up over the years. Had to eat somehow."
Her words were clipped, but not dismissive. A hint of something lingered beneath them—experience, survival. Kael didn’t push, but he listened, catching the faintest hints of her past slipping through. A vague mention of a foster home kitchen. A note of pride when she talked about perfecting flavors.
Bit by bit, without meaning to, she shared small pieces of herself.
The tension between them eased, if only slightly, replaced by the quiet rhythm of a shared meal.
When their plates were empty, Kael stood, gathering the dishes. "Thanks for lunch," he said, offering a small, genuine smile.
Freya met his gaze for a second—just a second—before nodding. "Yeah," she muttered, rising with her usual grace.
He walked her back to her room, and the lock clicked shut behind her, sealing her in once more. But this time, the air felt different. The walls hadn’t changed, the door was still locked—but something had shifted.
The ice hadn’t broken.
But maybe—just maybe—it had begun to thaw.
______
With Freya locked back in her room, Kael felt the weight of the day pressing down on him.
The gnawing doubt about Rhea—her fiery unpredictability, the chance she might mess up everything he’d worked for—clawed at the edges of his mind, refusing to let go.
Should I have waited more before I sent her to be a Superhero?
To shake it off, he decided to head to the massage parlor where he picked up shifts to keep himself busy and make money. Despite being boring, work had always been a reliable distraction, a way to drown out the noise in his head.
He stepped into the parlor, the familiar scent of lavender and eucalyptus greeting him as the door chimed softly behind him. He was greeted with familiar customers who were surprised but pleased to see him there.
The receptionist, a woman with dark curls, round glasses and a smile, looked up from her desk. "Hey, stranger," she teased, leaning forward slightly, her tone light and flirty as always.
Kael flashed a grin, falling into their usual rhythm. "Hey yourself. Miss me?" he shot back, his voice smooth despite the tension coiling in his chest. She laughed, twirling a pen between her fingers, and he moved past her to clock in, his hands already itching to check his phone.
Throughout his shift, Kael’s focus wavered.
Between kneading tense shoulders and easing knots from stiff backs, Kael’s gaze flickered—always, inevitably—toward his phone, propped discreetly on the counter. It remained dark. No messages, no calls. Just silence.
His hands moved on autopilot, working through muscle memory as he massaged his latest client’s shoulders, but his mind was elsewhere. He was waiting—hoping—for a message from Harris, a scrap of news about Rhea, anything to quiet the unease simmering beneath his skin. His thumb hovered over Harris’s contact more than once, the urge to call clawing at him. But he held back.
Didn’t want to seem desperate.
Didn’t want to admit how much the waiting was eating him alive.
The soft chime of the front desk bell broke his trance. He glanced up just as the receptionist, a sharp-eyed woman with a knowing smirk, leaned over the desk.
"You okay, Kael?" she asked, her usual flirtatious edge softened into something more genuine. "You’re off today."
He exhaled through his nose, rolling out the tension in his shoulders as if it might help. "It’s nothing," he said, forcing a casual shrug. "Just a long morning."
She didn’t buy it. He could tell by the way her brows quirked, her sharp gaze flicking between him and his still-silent phone. But she didn’t push. Instead, she straightened, reaching behind the desk.
"Well," she said, her voice light but pointed, "something sweet always helps with stress."
She slid a small cup of chocolate pudding across the counter. The scent of rich cocoa drifted up, warm and familiar.
"On the house," she added with a wink.
Kael’s lips twitched into something close to a real smile. "Thanks," he murmured, taking it with a nod.
She beamed, pleased with herself.
He carried the pudding to a plush sofa near her desk, sinking into the cushions with a quiet sigh.
The first bite was smooth and velvety, a small comfort against the storm in his head.
The receptionist watched him, resting her chin in her hand. "Good, right?" she asked, her voice lilting with curiosity.
Kael nodded, swallowing as he met her gaze. "Yeah, it’s good."
She grinned wider. "Think I made it?"
He leaned back, a playful glint in his hazel eyes as he flirted back. "Nah, you’re too busy charming the clients."
She laughed, brushing a curl behind her ear. "You’re right. But if I had, it’d be at least twice as good."
Kael raised a brow, taking another bite of pudding. "Doubt it. But if you ever make one, I’ll say it’s good no matter how it tastes."
The receptionist’s lips curled into a smirk, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Oh, I’ll bring one next time, and if you don’t like it, I’ll shove it down your throat myself."
A chuckle escaped him, and she laughed too—an easy, fleeting sound that cut through the weight pressing on his shoulders. For a moment, the tension eased. The waiting, the worry, the silence—it all faded, just for a little while.
He scooped up another spoonful, letting the rich chocolate and milk melt on his tongue. Then—
Ping~
A sharp, insistent notification rang out, cutting through the moment like a blade.
Kael’s phone screen lit up with a breaking news alert from a local channel, the headline stark and unmistakable had the words: ’Flame Lantern’.
The spoon slipped from his lips, falling to the floor with a metallic clink.