By the time I got back from the run, the sun was just dragging itself over the skyline. My shirt clung to my back, damp with sweat, and my muscles ached in that good kind of way, except none of it helped loosen the knot in my chest.
Kina.
Even her name echoed in my head like a damn curse.
I hit the shower, letting the hot water scald some of the thoughts away, but of course, it didn't work. When I stepped out, towel slung low on my hips, I was still pissed off at myself. Still thinking about the look on her face. Still playing back her silence from last night like it was a bullet I didn't dodge.
So I did what I could. I got dressed, rolled up my sleeves, and busied myself with breakfast. Eggs. Toast. Bacon, but not too crispy, she liked them a little soft in the middle
And as the kitchen filled with the scent of everything warm and greasy and perfect, I started prepping her lunch too. I packed it up in the damn little box she always teased me for, told me it made me look like a doting househusband.
I'd play the part if it meant she'd smile at me again.
It was nearly six when I heard the faint creak of floorboards, Kina's bedroom door. Her tiptoeing across the apartment. She was trying not to wake me, but I wasn't asleep. I wasn't even close.
I froze, unsure if I should catch her by the bathroom or pretend I hadn't heard her. Cornering her would only make things worse, right? I didn't want to scare her. Christ, what the hell had I become?
I returned to the stove, clenching the spatula too hard, angry at my own hesitations. I wasn't built for this shit. Apologies. Tender feelings. Navigating emotions like a goddamn landmine. I was a man who made people bleed and disappear, not cook eggs and beg for forgiveness.
But then I heard her again, this time by the door. Keys jingling. Bag slung over her shoulder.
She was leaving. Without food.
I didn't even think before I moved. One second I was in the kitchen, the next I was gripping her arm just gently enough to stop her. She froze under my touch but didn't look up.
"Where the hell are you going without eating?" I asked, keeping my voice even.
"I'm not really hungry," she muttered. Her voice was thin. Guarded. "And you can stop worrying about lunch. I can take care of myself."
I blinked. Once. Twice.
Before I could argue or even form a sentence, she slipped her wrist from my fingers, like the contact burned her. She walked out the door with not a glance back.
I stood there for too long.
It hit harder than I thought it would, that feeling of someone actively choosing to keep their distance from me. Not out of fear or survival. But because I'd hurt them.
She didn't even want the lunch. Not the peace offering. Not the food. Not me.
I ran a hand through my damp hair, frustration bubbling in my gut. This was new. This was maddening. Kina wasn't just avoiding me. She was trying to erase the little routines we'd somehow built together. And I hated it more than I wanted to admit.
So I cleaned the kitchen. Scrubbed everything until it sparkled. Paced. Sat. Paced again. Rehearsed apologies in my head. Hated every single one of them. Nothing I came up with sounded right. Nothing felt like enough.
I wasn't good at this. At being soft. At fixing things.
Eventually, I sat down on the couch, grabbed my phone, and did the one thing I'd been avoiding.
I called Rocco.
Because if anyone knew how to dig me out of this mess, or at least how to talk to a woman without making her hate you, it was him.
Or so I hoped.
---
The phone rang just once before Rocco picked up.
In the background, I heard a man scream bloody murder. A guttural, agonized kind of wail that echoed through the speaker.
"What the hell is that?" I asked, frowning.
"Oh," Rocco said, voice far too casual. "Just a patient. Had a cleaver lodged in his thigh. I'm yanking it out now. He's being dramatic."
Right. Why was I surprised?
"You're sick."
"And you called me, which makes you sicker," he said, amused. "What's up? This about Scorpion?"
"No," I muttered, dragging a hand down my face as I leaned against the kitchen counter. "It's about Kina."
There was a short pause, then a loud laugh burst through the line.
"Holy shit, you and the girl had your first couple's fight?" he snorted. "What was it? She catch you stalking her in your sleep or breathing too close or—"
"Rocco."
"Alright, alright," he chuckled. "Serious hat on. What happened?"
I sighed. "She's pissed at me. She barely looks at me. Doesn't want my food anymore. Tried to sneak out without breakfast. Without saying a word. She said I should stop worrying about her lunch too, and that she can take care of herself."
Rocco whistled. "Ouch."
"I tried apologizing," I muttered. "I didn't even do anything that bad. She just... shut off."
He hummed thoughtfully. "Welcome to the hell that is relationships. Not that I know shit, been divorced twice. And not even because of my work. Women are impossible, man."
"So you're telling me you have nothing useful to say."
"Yup," he said cheerfully. "But I'll tell you this, if you really like her, figure out what she wants. What makes her feel safe. What makes her smile. Start there."
I stared at the wall. Useless advice. No clear path. No strategy. Just fucking guesswork.
"You're useless."
"And you're smitten," he shot back with a grin in his voice. "Who would've thought the Almighty Killer would be pacing around like a kicked puppy because some tiny girl who can't even open a pickle jar is mad at him?"
"Fuck off."
"Enjoy the heartbreak, lover boy."
I ended the call with a growl just as a knock sounded at the door.
I stiffened. My hand was already reaching for the gun tucked under my waistband before my brain caught up.
Then I heard it again. Two sharp knocks. Then a softer one.
Mrs. Kim.
Of course.
I shoved the gun back and straightened, jaw still tight, heart still pulsing with frustration.
The day was only beginning, and it was already driving me insane.