He shakes his head. These people kidnapped him, threatenedhim, and upended his life. Yet here he is, frying dough to make them dessert. Not out of any obligation, but because he wants them to try his cooking. And unlike his friends in Midtown, Echo didn’t question his request to use the kitchen. She simply waved him in.
With an almost smile, Rafael lowers the strips one by one, losing himself in the work. He actually almost forgets where he is.
Until someone clears their throat.
His heart lurches as he spins around.
Kane fills the doorway, the light above glinting off the armored pauldrons and plated vest. His long, dark coat hangs open, visor still lowered over his eyes. Though his usual rifle is gone, only a sidearm at his hip. His brows are drawn tight, mouth set in a line.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, tone edged but not quite angry.
Rafael’s shoulders tense. “Uh…Echo said I could use the fryer. The one in the studio—where I’m staying—it’s busted. And I wanted to make churros for her and Pixie to try…for patrol tonight.”
The man’s jaw flexes. “Where’s Echo?”
“She said she had to sort something out, but would be back in a minute,” Rafael explains, peering around him down the hall.
“Figures she’d leave you in here unsupervised…” Kane steps in and gestures at the fryer. “That unit’s temperamental. You shouldn’t be using it alone.”
“Oh.” Rafael didn’t think he would stay, considering how quickly he’d cut their talk short the day before.
His thoughts kept drifting back to that moment all day.
When Kane spoke about his dream of being a gladiator and offered advice about pursuing cooking, he didn’t sound like a gang leader at all. More like a man with conviction and purpose, someone Rafael could almost look up to in any other situation.
He peers at the kitchen console, then into the frying oil. When no error appears on the control panel, he mutters, “So far, so good.”
Beside him, Kane hasn’t moved, gaze on the pan. Rafael tries to focus on the cooking, but the silence sets him on edge.
His fingers curl at his side until he finally gives in, blurting, “Um—does your team…or you…ever cook? Echo mentioned they mostly reheat rations and create mixed drinks. It seems like they’re always at the marketplace.”
Kane’s eyes snap to him when he looks back. “Echo talks too much,” he grumbles. Then follows up in a softer tone, “The recruits cook sometimes. I’ve used this console the most.”
The image this paints pulls a grin from Rafael. “Really? You cook?” Why didn’t he mention this yesterday?
No, the man owes him nothing, especially not a confession like that.
A hum drifts from Kane. “Bake,” he corrects. “Or rather, I did. Don’t have much time these days.”
“Bake?” Rafael turns toward him fully.
That earns the faintest curve of Kane’s mouth. “Not what you pictured from me, huh?”
Rafael’s hands lift instinctively. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t think—”
Kane leans a hip against the counter, cutting him off. “I know. You never mean any harm.”
There’s no teasing in his voice, only a genuine certainty thatmakes Rafael’s head spin.
“My aunt got me into it,” Kane goes on. “Said it’d help me focus. Keep my mind and hands busy when I wasn’t on patrol.”
His chest tightens. Kane’s never offered something so personal before, without jokes or orders.
“Sharing something like that with her—must’ve been nice,” Rafael murmurs. “My mom knew I tried things in the kitchen, but only my sister’s aware how much I loved it.”
Kane’s brow furrows, but the console draws his attention with a sharp beep. Rafael spins toward the fryer, frowning at the flickering display. “Error 1433…”
He doesn’t realize he’s spoken aloud until Kane says, “Step aside,” and moves toward the panel. Rafael goes still while Kane leans in to check the readout. “It’s just a calibration issue. Happens when the oil’s too hot.”