By the time the last bell rang, Kael had been volunteered for three things and threatened into two more.
He blamed Bram.
Bram had the social persistence of a stray cat that learned where the warm kitchens were. Once he decided Kael was "having a character arc," he treated it like a public event with sponsorships.
"You," Bram said, walking beside Kael down the hallway, "are joining a club today."
Kael kept his tone calm. "That wasn't in my contract."
Bram grinned. "It's in mine. I wrote it."
Lyra walked on Kael's other side, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like she was guarding him from scams. "You don't have to join anything just because Bram is acting—"
"Visionary," Bram supplied.
"—insane," Lyra finished.
Kael stared ahead, letting their arguing wash over him like background music.
In his bag, the Culinary Club flyer sat folded and refolded. He'd taken it out twice in class, pretended to "accidentally" look at it, and stuffed it back in like it was contraband.
He'd also unintentionally caught a few glimpses of Selene Arcos at a distance.
She hadn't approached him again. She hadn't smiled. She hadn't even looked in his direction for more than a second.
But she'd eaten the bun.
And, when she thought nobody was watching, she'd pushed the cafeteria soup aside like it had offended her personally.
Small victory.
Kael shouldn't have cared.
He did.
The hallway bulletin boards were crowded with club posters. Bright colors. Overconfident slogans. Photos of students posing like they were advertising a lifestyle brand instead of a bunch of teenagers trying to avoid going home early.
Bram pointed aggressively. "Look. Music club."
Lyra said, "No."
Bram pointed again. "Drone racing."
Kael said, "Also no."
Bram pointed harder. "Combat club."
Kael glanced at a poster featuring a student mid-kick, face frozen in an expression of pure violence. "That looks like a medical bill."
Bram sighed. "You're impossible. Fine. Culinary Club."
Kael's feet slowed.
The poster wasn't flashy. Just a simple page taped neatly:
CULINARY CLUB — MEMBERS WANTED
NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY
YES, YOU CAN EAT YOUR RESULTS
MEET IN HOME ECON ROOM 3B
Underneath were two messy doodles: a frying pan and a smiling dumpling.
Kael stared too long.
Lyra's voice softened slightly. "You really want to, don't you?"
Kael's sarcasm rose out of habit. "I want to eat. Yes."
Lyra didn't buy it. "Kael."
He exhaled.
In his last life, wanting things had always been dangerous. Wanting led to distraction. Distraction led to failure. Failure led to hospitals and bills and helplessness.
But he'd already died once.
He wasn't going to live like a hostage again.
"I'm curious," he said, which was the closest he could get to honesty without combusting.
Bram clapped his hands like a man watching his investment portfolio grow. "Perfect! Curiosity is step one toward romance and personal growth."
Lyra groaned. "Bram."
Kael started walking again, and this time his feet aimed themselves toward Home Economics without needing Bram to shove him.
They arrived at Room 3B.
The door was open, and warmth spilled out into the hallway—literal warmth, from ovens and stoves, and something else: the faint smell of spices and sugar and toasted bread.
Kael stopped.
His lungs filled with it.
It wasn't Mira's kitchen. It wasn't home.
But it was still a kitchen.
And kitchens meant people tried.
Bram leaned in and whispered, reverently, "Smells like hope."
Kael glanced at him. "Smells like someone burned something and tried to cover it with cinnamon."
Bram's grin widened. "Hope can be burnt."
Lyra rolled her eyes but stepped inside with them, as if she didn't want Kael to do something stupid unsupervised.
The home economics room had multiple workstations—stoves, sinks, counters. A large whiteboard listed assignments from earlier classes, most of them erased into faint ghosts of handwriting.
About eight students were scattered around, some chatting, some unpacking ingredients. A few looked up at the newcomers with mild interest.
At the front, a woman in her thirties stood with arms crossed, watching the room like a general supervising recruits.
Ms. Caldra Fen.
She had sharp eyes, hair tied back, and an expression that said she enjoyed discipline but also secretly enjoyed teenagers being ridiculous.
Her gaze landed on Kael, then flicked to Bram, then Lyra.
A small smile appeared.
It was the kind of smile that meant trouble.
"Well," Ms. Fen said, voice crisp, "if it isn't the loud one, the responsible one, and the one who looks like he's already tired of existing."
Kael blinked. "I'm flattered by the accuracy."
Lyra's mouth twitched. Bram bowed dramatically. "Ms. Fen, we missed you."
Ms. Fen ignored Bram like this was a practiced skill. "You're here for Culinary Club?"
Bram shoved Kael forward by the shoulder. "He is, and well me too."
Kael steadied himself. "I am."
Ms. Fen's eyes narrowed, amused. "That's a surprise. Veyrin, you usually flee the moment an activity looks like it might involve joy."
Kael said, deadpan, "I'm trying a new hobby. Disappointing people less."
Ms. Fen hummed. "Ambitious. We'll see how long it lasts."
Kael should've felt offended.
Instead he felt something like relief. Adult Kael had been surrounded by yes-men. A teacher lightly roasting him felt… safe.
Ms. Fen tapped a clipboard. "Welcome, then. Two things."
Kael waited.
Ms. Fen held up two fingers. "One: Culinary Club is not an excuse to eat your way through high school."
Bram made a wounded sound.
Ms. Fen continued, "Two: Culinary Club is also not a place for perfectionism. If you're scared of failing, you'll fail anyway. Just slower."
Kael's throat tightened. That landed too close.
Ms. Fen's gaze sharpened, like she'd noticed something in his face she hadn't expected. "Understood?"
Kael nodded once. "Understood."
"Good," Ms. Fen said. "Aprons are on the rack. You'll be doing a simple trial today. Something basic. Something that reveals whether you can follow instructions without starting a fire."
Lyra muttered, "That's not guaranteed."
Kael glanced at her. "Traitor."
Ms. Fen pointed at a workstation. "Bram, you're on dish duty."
Bram gasped. "Why?"
Ms. Fen didn't blink. "Because you're loud."
Bram nodded solemnly but said his disappointement out loud. "That's not FAIR."
Ms. Fen pointed again. "Lyra, you're assisting with ingredients. You've done this before."
Lyra sighed, resigned. "Yes, ma'am."
Then Ms. Fen's finger aimed at Kael like a verdict. "Veyrin. You're cooking."
Kael looked at the counter in front of him.
There was a bowl, a cutting board, a knife that had seen better days, and a sheet of paper with a recipe printed on it.
Basic savory omelet. Chopped vegetables. Simple seasoning. Fold. Plate.
Kael stared at the instructions.
He'd never made an omelet in his last life. He'd watched people do it. He'd paid people who could do it perfectly. He'd eaten omelets that cost more than his teenage lunch money.
But making one? For someone else? With his own hands?
His fingers twitched.
He tied on an apron, the fabric rough against his uniform. It felt like stepping into a different identity.
Lyra stood at the adjacent counter, chopping vegetables with quick, competent movements. She glanced at him. "Don't overthink it."
Kael scoffed. "I never overthink."
Lyra didn't even look up. "You literally look like you're negotiating with the eggs."
Kael stared at the eggs like they were planning a coup.
Across the room, a few students watched with interest. One girl with paint-smudged fingers and an oversized cardigan sat quietly at a table near the back, sketchbook open. She wasn't cooking. She was drawing.
Her gaze lifted for a second, eyes soft, observant.
Nari Quell.
Kael recognized her the way you recognized a quiet song you'd heard once and couldn't forget.
She didn't wave. She just looked.
Kael looked away first, strangely unsettled.
Ms. Fen clapped once. "Alright. Timer starts now. You have twenty minutes."
A few students began moving.
Kael cracked the eggs into the bowl.
His hands didn't shake.
That surprised him. The body remembered confidence even when the mind didn't.
He whisked them with a fork, watching the yolks and whites combine into something new. The color turned smooth, golden.
Something about it felt symbolic in a way Kael refused to acknowledge.
He chopped vegetables—slowly at first, then faster as muscle memory from years of precise business habits translated into knife control. Not perfect, but clean.
He heated the pan, added a little oil, watched it shimmer.
The smell rose: faint, promising.
Kael poured the egg mixture into the pan.
It sizzled.
His heart jumped like he'd just heard an alarm.
He steadied himself, then used a spatula to gently pull the edges inward the way the instructions said. The surface began to set.
He added the vegetables, sprinkled seasoning, and—without thinking—added a tiny extra pinch of herbs from the container Lyra had brought over.
Lyra glanced at him. "Following the recipe?"
Kael murmured, "Mostly."
Lyra snorted. "Of course."
He folded the omelet.
It wasn't pretty. One side cracked slightly. The fold wasn't smooth. But it held together, steam escaping in soft breaths.
Kael plated it.
He stared at the omelet like it was a report card that could change his entire future.
Ms. Fen walked over, arms still crossed.
She looked at the plate.
Kael waited for judgment.
Ms. Fen picked up a fork, cut a small piece, and tasted it.
Her expression stayed neutral for a long moment.
Kael's chest tightened.
Then Ms. Fen nodded once. "Not bad."
Kael's brain short-circuited.
"Not bad?" Bram repeated from the sink, as if the phrase was holy scripture.
Ms. Fen glanced at Kael. "You have instincts. And you didn't panic."
Kael's mouth twitched. "Should I have panicked?"
Ms. Fen's eyes sharpened. "Don't get cocky. It's just eggs."
Lyra smirked openly now. "He's going to frame that 'not bad' and hang it in his room."
Kael deadpanned, "It's already in my heart."
Ms. Fen stared at him like she wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or amused. She chose both.
"You're in," she said simply. "If you want it."
Kael looked down at the omelet again.
A simple dish.
A small thing.
But in his mind, it connected to Mira's kitchen, to the smell of morning, to being present, to not buying warmth but making it.
He nodded. "I want it."
Ms. Fen's expression softened by a millimeter—barely visible, but real. "Good. Welcome to Culinary Club, Kael Veyrin."
Bram whooped from the sink. "YES! We have acquired a chef, but hey let me cook too!"
Lyra ignored Bram and sighed like she'd been waiting for this inevitability. "Congratulations. Please don't burn the school down."
Kael glanced toward the back of the room.
Nari Quell was still sketching, head tilted slightly, pencil moving. She wasn't drawing the room.
She was drawing Kael.
His eyes widened.
Nari noticed him looking and, instead of panicking, simply held up her sketchbook for half a second—just enough for Kael to see the rough outline.
His posture. The apron. The plate in front of him.
His face looked… calmer than he felt.
Nari lowered the sketchbook again and said quietly, "It suits you."
Kael's throat tightened.
He tried to respond with sarcasm, but it came out softer. "I didn't know I had a 'suits you.'"
Nari's lips curved faintly. "Everyone does."
Bram leaned over Kael's shoulder suddenly, peering toward Nari. "Nari! Are you drawing Kael? Draw him shorter than me, and draw me too, much taller than him."
Kael elbowed Bram in the ribs without looking. "Draw him quieter."
Bram wheezed and returned to his dishes, defeated.
Kael's gaze lingered on Nari for one more second.
Then the door opened.
A hush rippled through the room.
Selene Arcos stepped in.
She wasn't wearing an apron. She wasn't holding ingredients. She wasn't here to cook.
She looked like she'd walked into the wrong world and was too proud to admit it.
Her eyes swept the room, landed on Ms. Fen, then—inevitably—found Kael.
Her stomach did that annoying butterfly thing again.
Selene's expression remained composed, but her gaze flicked to the omelet on Kael's plate.
Then back to him.
Ms. Fen's eyebrows lifted. "Arcos. To what do we owe this honor?"
Selene's smile appeared—perfect. "I'm here regarding the club budget forms. Student council requires updated—"
Ms. Fen held up a hand. "Later."
Selene paused, the slightest crack in her composure. "Excuse me?"
Ms. Fen's tone was matter-of-fact. "We're in session. If student council wants forms, student council can wait."
A few club members hid smiles.
Selene's cheeks colored faintly, then smoothed. "Understood."
She stood there for a moment too long.
Kael watched her hands. Her fingers flexed once, like she wanted to do something and didn't know how.
Kael surprised himself by speaking first.
"Want to taste it?" he asked, voice casual.
Selene's eyes snapped to his.
She stared at him as if he'd offered her a stolen jewel.
Then her voice came out cool. "Why would I?"
Kael shrugged. "Because cafeteria soup is a crime, and I'm on parole."
A laugh almost escaped her. Almost.
Selene's eyes narrowed. "You're strange."
Kael nodded. "People keep saying that."
Selene hesitated.
Then she stepped closer, just one step, and looked down at the plate as if it might bite her.
Ms. Fen watched with open amusement now, as if she'd just found today's entertainment.
Lyra crossed her arms and muttered, "Oh no."
Bram whispered loudly from the sink, "Oh yes."
Selene cleared her throat. "One bite," she said, like she was negotiating a treaty.
Kael slid the plate slightly toward her. "One bite."
Selene picked up a fork with careful dignity and cut a small piece. She lifted it to her mouth, paused like she was about to do something scandalous, then ate it.
Her eyes widened—just a fraction.
Her shoulders lowered again, that same tiny surrender.
She swallowed.
Then she looked at Kael, and for the first time her perfect smile wasn't a mask.
It was small.
Real.
"Acceptable," Selene said.
Kael stared at her. "That's your compliment?"
Selene's cheeks colored faintly. "Don't push your luck."
Kael's mouth curved. "Noted."
Selene set the fork down with controlled care, then straightened. The mask slid back into place, but the warmth lingered at the edges.
She turned to Ms. Fen, voice crisp again. "I'll return later for the forms."
Ms. Fen waved her off like she was dismissing a meeting. "Try not to starve in the meantime, Arcos."
Selene's jaw tightened. "I don't starve."
Kael murmured, just loud enough, "You just suffer artistically."
Selene shot him a look that could've cut vegetables.
Then she left.
The door closed behind her.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Bram slammed a wet plate into the sink like it was punctuation and declared, "KAEL. YOU JUST GOT THE SCHOOL IDOL TO EAT YOUR FOOD. THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF THE LEGEND."
Lyra groaned into her hands. "We're doomed."
Kael stared at the door Selene had exited through, heart doing something foolish and light in his chest.
He should've felt smug.
Instead he felt… something else.
Purpose.
Cooking wasn't just an interest.
It was a bridge.
And Kael had spent a lifetime on the wrong side of bridges, wondering why he was alone.
He looked down at his cracked omelet and thought, with a calm certainty that surprised him:
This time, I'm not building a tower.
I'm building a table.