The scent of ginger and rice filled the kitchen like a warm hug.
Celeste stood barefoot in front of the stove, hair tied up in a loose bun, she stirred the pot with intense focus. Her cheeks were still a little red—not from heat, but from everything that happened last night.
She glanced over her shoulder toward the hallway. No movement. No groans. No footsteps.
"He's still asleep," she muttered, adjusting the flame. "Good. He needs it."
She tasted the porridge with a spoon and grimaced. "Too bland."
She grabbed a pinch of salt, added it, then stirred again.
"Okay… just a little more ginger. Maybe some spring onions on top…"
Cooking wasn't her thing—she wasn't bad, just… not practiced. But something about taking care of Ash made her want to do things properly. Made her want to be… good at this.
When the porridge was finally done, she ladled it into a small bowl and arranged it on a tray with a glass of water and some tissue. She stared at it like it was a final exam project.
"Don't suck," she told the food.
.
.
.
She carefully balanced the tray in both hands and made her way down the hall. Her bare feet padded softly against the floor, her heart oddly light.
As she reached Ash's bedroom door, she paused.
Still quiet.
She nudged the door open with her elbow and peeked inside.
Ash was still in bed—but not asleep.
He was staring at the ceiling, lips slightly parted, face pink from fever or embarrassment or… well, something.
Celeste smirked to herself.
"Are you busy blushing in there or what?"
Ash jolted, eyes flicking to the door instantly. He sat up slightly, clearly startled, and coughed into his sleeve.
"I—I wasn't blushing," he muttered hoarsely.
Celeste raised a brow.
"Right. And I'm not holding a tray like a concerned housewife."
She entered, set the tray carefully on the bedside table, and glanced down at him.
"Sit up. I made food. Don't let my porridge die in vain."
Ash hesitated—then slowly pushed himself upright, wincing a little. His hair was a mess, his undershirt rumpled, and the blanket still wrapped around his waist like a cocoon.
He looked up at her.
"You… made that?"
Celeste nodded proudly, though her hands were behind her back to hide how sweaty her fingers were.
"Yup. First time cooking for someone who almost died on me. Don't make it awkward."
He blinked at her, genuinely surprised.
"You cooked?"
"Don't say it like I built a bomb."
"No—it's just…" He paused. Then smiled a little. "Thank you."
Celeste shrugged casually, trying to look unfazed.
"Well, you know. You collapsed on me. Least I could do was feed you after you emotionally damaged me with your pitiful fever face."
Ash picked up the spoon and took a slow bite.
He blinked.
Another bite. Slower.
Then he looked at her again—this time with widened eyes.
"…This is good."
Celeste blinked.
"Wait, are you lying to be polite? Because I swear if you're lying—"
"No," he cut in, shaking his head. "I mean it. It's really good."
A beat passed.
She walked back over to the bed before he could respond, then leaned in slowly—too slowly, he realized with dread and anticipation—and pressed her forehead lightly to his.
Ash's breath caught.
Her skin was cool against his overheated one, her bun brushing his temple, the scent of her perfume faint but close.
She stayed there for a beat. Then two. Then leaned back just enough to meet his eyes.
"Still warm," she said softly. "But not boiling anymore," her lips twitched upward. "Good."
Ash blinked, still trying to get air back into his lungs.
Then—
Celeste tilted her head slightly and smirked.
"Now eat it all up… or I'll feed you with my mouth again."
Ash choked on nothing.
"I—I'm eating!" he blurted, immediately lifting the spoon like it was a lifeline.
Celeste stepped back with a teasing hum, arms crossed over her chest.
"Smart choice," she said, watching him with clear amusement. "Didn't think you'd survive a second dose of tongue-to-tongue delivery. Especially not in that flimsy shirt."
He blushed.
He looked down at his white undershirt like it had betrayed him.
Celeste grinned.
"It's not the shirt's fault you're distracting when you're helpless."
Ash let out a breathy laugh—soft, but real. Then he looked at her again.
"…I missed you," he said suddenly.
The smile dropped from her face.
Just for a second.
Just enough for it to sting.
She blinked, lips parting slightly.
"What?"
Ash set his spoon down, not looking at her this time.
"I mean it. I missed you. These past few days… I kept thinking I'd message you but—"
"You didn't," Celeste said quietly, folding her arms.
"Mm," he admitted, voice low. "I didn't."
He looked up again. His eyes were a little glassy—probably from the fever, but there was something else in them too.
"I thought… maybe I didn't have the right to. After everything."
A beat.
Then, quietly.
"After what you saw."
Celeste was silent for a moment.
Then she walked to his bedside again, leaned in slowly—and flicked his forehead.
Hard.
Ash winced.
"Ow—!"
"That's for making me feel like a jealous idiot,"
Then she leaned even closer, nose just inches from his, and smiled wickedly.
"And that's also for not texting me."
Ash's ears turned red again.
"I deserved that," he mumbled.
"You did," she agreed, brushing a stray piece of hair from his forehead.
But before she could pull away, he reached out and gently caught her wrist.
"Celeste," he said softly. "I missed you. I mean it."
Her heart stuttered.
"…Say it again," she said, almost teasing—but there was a real edge to it.
Ash smiled faintly.
"I missed you."
Celeste exhaled.
Then leaned in and kissed his forehead, slowly, warmly.
"Good," she whispered. "Because I missed you too."
She stood up again, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
"Now finish your damn porridge before I kiss you back to unconsciousness."
Ash picked up the spoon obediently, cheeks flushed, lips curved into a dazed smile.
Celeste watched him for a moment—then her smile faded just slightly.
She took a deep breath.
Then, before turning to leave, she said:
"Next time I walk in here, I want to hear everything."
Ash looked up, blinking.
She tilted her head, her voice softer now—but serious.
"Before and after that kiss."
Her eyes didn't waver.
"Tell me the truth, Ash. All of it."
Ash's throat bobbed.
"I will..."
Celeste gave him one final look.
Then turned and walked out of the room—leaving behind the scent of porridge, warm sunlight through the curtains… and a man whose heart now raced faster than his fever.
___________