Kieran –
The second Kina left the room, I knew I'd fucked up. I didn't need a damn therapist or a flashback montage to realize that much.
I just didn't know how.
She hadn't yelled, hadn't slammed the door, hadn't even tossed a pillow at my face, which, considering her temper, was saying something. But the silence she left in her place was...different. Not just the pissed-off silence. Not just the kind I could ignore. It was the kind that sat heavy in the space she used to fill, like she'd taken something soft and good and walked off with it. Like air, maybe.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and replayed everything. The teasing. The stupid grin I wore when I asked about her boyfriend. God, I sounded like a jackass.
It wasn't that I didn't believe her. I knew she had someone. Probably a pretty boy who sent good morning texts and actually meant it. But hearing her talk about him with that glint in her eyes? That spark of pride?
It made me itch.
So yeah. I covered it up. Threw out a few jokes. Mocked it a little. Maybe tried to shrink it down to something small enough I wouldn't feel it clawing under my ribs.
But I went too far.
I usually didn't care when people got mad. Hell, half my life was built on making people pissed off and afraid of me. But Kina being mad at me?
No.
Something twisted low in my gut. Bitter and unfamiliar.
I hovered near her door for a moment like an idiot, telling myself I wasn't going to apologize. That it wasn't that deep. She'd get over it. But I knew I was lying to myself, and worse, I hated how bad I was at this. At fixing things without blood or bullets.
I muttered a string of curses under my breath and walked back into the kitchen.
Fine. If I couldn't say it properly, maybe I could offer something instead.
Food. That was universal, right?
I scavenged what I could, half a loaf of bread, an egg, and a few strawberries that hadn't gone to hell yet. Slapped together a lazy version of French toast, then added way too much powdered sugar just because she seemed like the type who'd appreciate sweet things more than I ever did.
The plate looked...okay. Decent. A peace offering if nothing else.
I padded barefoot to her door, tray in hand, and knocked.
Once. Twice. Waited.
Nothing.
I knocked again, softer this time. "Kina?"
Still nothing.
Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she was ignoring me. I deserved that. But it didn't stop the damn pang that hit me like a knife to the ribs.
I stood there for another second before sighing and setting the plate down gently on the floor outside her door.
"Look," I muttered, low enough that it felt stupid talking to a door, "I don't know what exactly I said that pissed you off... but I know I was an asshole. I didn't mean to make you feel stupid. Or small. Or whatever the hell I made you feel. I just—" I cut myself off. Cringed.
Fuck this was hard.
"I'm not good at this," I muttered finally. "But I'm sorry."
I didn't wait for a reply. Didn't expect one. Just turned around and walked back to the couch like the pathetic bastard I was and stared at the wall for five full seconds before giving in and eating the toast myself.
Still warm. Still sweet.
Didn't taste like forgiveness, though.
I chewed in silence, mind spinning with every ridiculous scenario of how to make her forgive me. Flowers? Too much. Cleaning the whole apartment? Too obvious. Kidnap her boyfriend? ...Tempting, but unhelpful.
I leaned back with a sigh, head tipped against the back of the couch.
God. What the hell was happening to me?
....
I must've dozed off without meaning to.
One minute, I was lying there, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. The next, I woke up to silence thick as smoke, the ache in my ribs muted but steady. The kind of pain that reminded me I was still alive. Still healing. Still waiting.
I blinked at the ceiling for a while longer. My body wasn't tired anymore. My mind? That was another story.
I rubbed a hand down my face, sat up, and let out a breath. If sleep wasn't going to come back, I needed to move. Burn something off. Maybe the restlessness. Maybe the ghost of her scent still clinging to the couch cushion where she sat earlier.
I laced up my shoes, not quietly, not with care. Just fast. Rough. Like if I stayed too long in this apartment, I'd lose my goddamn mind.
The night air hit my skin like icewater, shocking but clean. I started slow. Pushed off the pavement. One foot, then the next. Before long, I was moving like I was being chased.
It used to feel good, the rhythm of it. Running. Heart pounding. Muscles burning. These days it just felt like a reminder that I was human. No longer untouchable. No longer a king in the underworld. Just a man with bruises and a body trying to repair itself.
And her.
Fuck.
She was everywhere. In the wind, in the dull glow of the streetlights, in the tightness in my chest I didn't have a name for.
Kina.
Her name was starting to feel like a brand burned into my skull.
I thought I could stay away. Keep my head down. Heal, vanish, and let the chaos eat itself alive.
But then she opened that goddamn door.
And now?
I was running away from my own thoughts like they were armed and hunting me.
I could've returned by now. Retaken my throne. Sent a message to every snake that tried to take a bite out of me. I knew how. Knew where they lived, what they loved, what they feared. Vengeance was an old friend, patient and always hungry.
But the truth?
The truth was uglier.
I didn't want to go back.
I didn't want the crown that was forced on me. Didn't want the blood-soaked meetings or the power plays or the weight of being the monster everyone bowed to but hated. I was tired. Not weak. Not broken.
Just… tired.
So I'd let them think I was dead. Let the vultures claw at each other over what I left behind.
Whoever put a hit on me… maybe they did me a favor.
And even as that hunger still lived inside me, whispering of violence, aching for the sound of screams and snapping bones, something else had crept in, quiet and unfamiliar.
Softness.
No. Not softness.
Kina.
Her laugh. Her scowls. The way she bit her tongue when she wanted to yell but didn't.
She was soft in the way scars could be soft — not because they didn't hurt anymore, but because they reminded you of everything you survived.
God, she was maddening. She'd left me speechless, furious, amused, all in the span of minutes.
And now she was mad at me.
Rightfully.
Because I'd been a bastard. Cold, detached, hurting her feelings from my carelessness.
I couldn't blame her for looking at me like I was something she should regret helping.
Still.
It fucking burned.
She didn't owe me anything. And I didn't deserve anything from her.
But damn it, I wanted to fix it. Even if I didn't know how.
Maybe I'd throw myself into traffic. Or find a kitten and gift it to her like a peace offering. Or maybe I'd just knock on her door and say the one word that still tasted foreign on my tongue—
"Sorry."
I'd rather take a bullet than beg, but for her?
Maybe I could figure it out.
Maybe.
Or maybe I was already too far gone.
Either way, I kept running.
Because if I stopped, I might go back. Might knock on her door and beg her not to hate me.
And that terrified me more than anything.