Kate POV:
The waves sound softer tonight. Maybe it's the distance, or maybe it's just me, too tired to hear them the same way. Everyone's gone back inside the beach house. I'm still sitting out here, cold drink in hand, watching the faint light fade on the water.
The glass sweats against my palm. The ice is almost gone, melting into something lukewarm, but I keep holding it anyway — maybe because it's the only cool thing left against my skin. My head feels heavy, my thoughts scattered, and my stomach is a tight knot of hunger and leftover anger.
I don't even know why I'm still mad.
The fight with Michael keeps replaying in flashes. His raised voice, Kevin stepping between us, the tension snapping like a wire. I had said things I didn't mean, and Kevin he'd taken the hit for me. Again.
I don't know why he does that.
A sigh slips out of me, small and tired. I push myself up and brush the sand from my jeans. The night air wraps around me as I walk up the wooden path back to the house. My feet drag, but my heart beats faster with every step closer to the door.
Then, I smell it.
Something warm. Spiced. Real. The kind of smell that fills the whole room and hugs you before anyone else does.
I stop in the doorway.
Inside, the kitchen glows in a soft yellow light. Kevin stands there, sleeves rolled up, his hair a little messy, stirring something in a pan. There's music playing low — just an instrumental tune that hums under the crackling sound of the stove.
For a moment, I just stand there watching him.
He looks different like this — calm, focused, like he belongs here more than he ever did in the chaos earlier. There's something peaceful about the way he moves, how he keeps tasting, adjusting, tasting again. I can't remember the last time I saw him smile so quietly.
I walk up behind him without saying anything. When I get close enough, I rest my chin lightly on his shoulder. The smell is stronger now — garlic, pepper, something sweet like soy sauce.
"What are you cooking?" I ask softly.
He turns his head slightly, eyes catching mine for a split second before he looks back at the pan. "Dinner," he says simply.
"For me?"
"For us," he corrects. "You didn't eat after… everything."
"You noticed."
"I always do."
My heart does a small, unexpected jump. I swallow, hoping he doesn't notice.
"What is it?" I ask, leaning a little closer, pretending to peek.
He smiles. "Chicken, rice, and noodles. Simple stuff."
"Simple? It smells like you've been working in here for hours."
"I wanted it to be good," he says, and the way he says it makes my chest feel warm.
When he finally turns off the stove, he plates the food carefully — like it matters. I sit down at the table, and the warmth of the food spreads through the air. The table is small, the light soft. There's a bottle of wine sitting open beside two glasses.
He pours quietly.
"You're joining me?" I ask.
"Only if you are," he says.
I grin faintly. "Fine. One glass."
We clink them gently, and the sound feels like the start of a peace treaty. The wine burns a little going down, but it's smooth, and the food — oh, the food — it's perfect.
For a few minutes, we eat without words. Just the sound of forks against plates, the ocean whispering through the open window, and the occasional quiet breath when we both think of something to say and don't.
It's not awkward. It's peaceful.
Then Kevin breaks the silence. "You know," he says, "I'm sorry about earlier."
I shake my head immediately. "You don't need to be."
"I do," he says. "I shouldn't have raised my voice. I just—"
"You were protecting me," I interrupt, setting my fork down. "And I should thank you for that. I didn't get the chance to."
He looks up, and for a moment his eyes are soft enough to make me look away.
"You don't have to thank me," he murmurs. "That's just… what I do."
I look back at him. "Why?"
He hesitates, then shrugs, smiling a little. "Because it's you."
The words hang there. Small, simple, but too heavy to touch.
I don't know what to say, so I take another sip of wine. It's stronger than I expect, and it warms my throat in a way that makes me forget how to respond.
He watches me for a second, then smiles again — that small, side smile that looks like he's keeping a secret.
"You like it?" he asks, nodding toward the food.
"I love it," I admit. "You could honestly open a restaurant."
He laughs quietly. "Yeah, maybe one day. 'Kevin's Kitchen: For When You're Tired and Angry.'"
I laugh too, and it feels good. Like my lungs can finally breathe again.
We keep talking, nothing serious — just silly things about how the rice stuck to the pan, and how I almost burnt noodles once in college. Every time I laugh, he looks proud, like he's done something right.
Halfway through the second glass, my cheeks feel warm. My body relaxes in ways it hasn't all day. The tension melts into the glow of the lights and the smell of garlic still in the air.
"Hey," I say suddenly, "you're actually pretty nice when you're not arguing with Michael."
"Only sometimes?"
"Don't push it."
He grins. "You're worse when you're tired."
"I'm not tired," I say, even as I yawn right after.
"Uh-huh."
I glare at him playfully and cross my arms. "Don't 'uh-huh' me."
He chuckles and stands, walking over to grab a small towel to clean the counter. I tilt my head as I watch him. Maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's just the way he looks under this light, but something feels softer about him tonight — something familiar, safe.
When he turns around, I'm smiling without realizing it.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing," I say quickly, but it comes out in a giggle. "You're just… not bad at this."
"At what?"
"At being… human."
He laughs again, shaking his head. "You're definitely tipsy."
"I'm not!" I protest, though my words come out a little slower. "I just think you should cook more often."
"I will, if you promise not to fight with Michael during dinner."
"No promises."
He smiles, and I do too. It feels easy. Warm.
When we're done eating, I help him clean the dishes — or at least I try to. He keeps taking things out of my hands. "You'll drop that," he says when I reach for a plate.
"I will not," I say stubbornly, wobbling slightly as I turn.
He catches my arm gently. His hand is warm against my skin. "Okay," he says quietly, "maybe just sit for a bit."
I pout. "You're bossy."
He smiles. "Only when you're adorable and about to break something."
"Adorable?"
He clears his throat. "I said—uh—unstable."
"Liar."
"Fine," he admits, laughing. "A little adorable."
I grin, triumphant, and flop down on the couch, hugging a pillow. My head feels fuzzy, but in the best way — like everything bad that happened earlier has been washed away.
Kevin sits down across from me, resting his elbows on his knees. For a while, we just sit there, listening to the waves again through the half-open window. The air smells faintly of food and sea salt and something else — something new.
I tilt my head at him. "You're quiet."
"I'm just thinking."
"About what?"
He hesitates. "About how tonight turned out better than I thought it would."
"Because of your cooking?"
"Because of you eating it," he says.
That makes my stomach do another one of those flips I can't control. I hide my face in the pillow. "Stop saying things like that."
"Like what?"
"Like that."
He laughs softly. "You really are drunk."
"Am not," I mumble into the pillow. "Just happy."
There's a pause. I can hear him shifting, maybe leaning back, maybe smiling. I don't look up to check.
"Good," he says quietly. "You deserve to be."
The room goes still after that no words, no movement, just the hum of the ocean and my heartbeat echoing in my ears.
I peek over the pillow. Kevin's watching the window, the moonlight catching the edge of his face. For a second, I wonder if he knows how much this means to me the food, the quiet, the way he didn't ask for anything in return.
Probably not. And maybe that's okay.
I close my eyes, and my voice comes out small. "Hey, Kevin?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks… for dinner."
He smiles, I can tell by his tone. "Anytime."
The world starts to blur a little after that. My eyelids get heavier, and my mind drifts somewhere between comfort and sleep. I can feel him move closer, gently pulling the blanket from the couch to cover me.
His hand hesitates for just a second near my shoulder a small, protective pause before he lets go.
"Goodnight, Kate," he whispers.
"Night," I mumble, barely awake.
The last thing I hear is the sound of the ocean outside, and the faint smell of garlic and warmth still hanging in the air — the smell of the night Kevin cooked for me
hey guys how are you I would like to tell you that these chapters has been getting upgraded I have been taking classes from Manila and honestly I have been improving so well and in the library there are all the retired people who had experience of writing books there are female and male teachers both and honestly it's been so helpful when I told the author whole story and when I showed him the book first he took out more than ten mistakes and then he told "naughty girl you're just 17 and you're writing romantic books he did liked the book but after correcting my format his been proud from me and tell me from where are you United states,Unite Arab Emirates,Philippines,India,United kingdom or maybe Pakistan.