Chapter 48 The Things He Used to Do

The soft creak of wood, the murmur of warm water, and the flick of a skillet were the only sounds that filled the morning air. Sunlight drifted through the windows of the modest home Kai and his party had settled into, but this morning felt different.

Kai was still unconscious in his bed.

The girls had taken over.

Fara stood at the hearth, sleeves rolled up, tails tucked neatly under the knot of her apron. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked a skillet full of sizzling peppers, garlic, and diced meat, dusted with herbs they had picked up at the market the day before. The oil popped and spat against the iron, tiny flecks of seasoning clinging to her fingers.

Cooking was not something she did often—Kai had always handled it without thought. But today, she handled it with the same care she’d seen in him countless times, remembering the way his hands moved without hesitation, how he measured spices by instinct, never too much, never too little.

As she stirred, she thought about how easy it had been to rely on him. How natural it was to let him be the one who noticed if they were hungry, tired, or cold. How safe it felt knowing he would act without being asked. And now, standing here in his place, she felt the weight of that care. It wasn’t just cooking. It was seeing the people you lived with. She realized that was what he gave her—what he gave all of them. The right to be strong without losing the right to be vulnerable.

In the main room, Skye moved with quiet purpose. She had started the laundry before sunrise, and Kai’s jacket now hung drying by the window. She had tucked a small stitched note in the pocket before hanging it—just three words: For our guide.

She swept the floor, folded the cloaks, and gathered their gear, arranging it in the neat rows Kai favored before missions. Each small act brought a flicker of memory—how he’d sit at the table sharpening their blades without saying a word, or lay out clean clothes without fanfare. She realized those habits had been his way of saying he cared, even if he never said the words aloud.

Her fingers lingered on the sleeve of his coat, remembering the briefest touch—his hand against her cheek after the fog incident, his thumb brushing away some unseen tension before she drifted to sleep. That warmth stayed with her, still burning somewhere deep, and she longed for him to look at her that way again. Not because she needed the reassurance—but because when Kai said she mattered, she believed it.

Outside, Revoli stood in a swirl of steam, scrubbing the large metal tubs Kai had turned into their bath. Her sleeves were soaked, hair sticking in damp strands to her forehead. She grumbled under her breath about grime and soot, but her mouth kept tugging into a reluctant smile. She’d set up a row of small, buried charges around the property—“just in case”—because if Kai could think ahead, so could she.

This wasn’t the kind of work she sought out. She preferred the rush of sparks, the thrill of an explosion—but as she polished the tub to a bright gleam, she felt a small, quiet satisfaction. She left a fresh towel and a bar of floral soap at his place, just as he might have done for them without a word.

She’d never say it out loud, but she missed his voice—especially the way it softened when he said her name. Even when she was reckless, even when she messed up, there was something in his tone that made her believe he didn’t just tolerate her—he cared. She had slipped into his room once when no one was looking, pressing her face into his pillow just to catch his scent, just to imagine what it might be like to be held by him without fear or hesitation.

They ran errands together later in the day—paying the monthly guild dues, picking up supplies, repairing gear. Skye had approached Lena at the desk, cheeks pink, to ask what their team owed. Lena had surprised them by waving the fee. “He’s lucky to have all of you,” she’d said with a smile.

They stopped at the market, stocked the pantry, and checked in at the forge for weapon work. When asked where Kai was, Fara simply said, “He’s resting,” and left it at that.

By the time they returned home, the air was rich with the scent of cooked meat and charred peppers. Weapons were sharpened. Cloaks aired. Wood floors scrubbed clean.

When Kai stirred in the late afternoon, his body still leaden from the temple’s trials, he awoke to the sight and scent of a home cared for in his absence.

Fara sat beside the bed, a damp cloth in her hand. Her tails flicked once when his eyes opened. “You’re up,” she said softly, voice tinged with relief.

Skye was perched quietly by the window, hands folded in her lap, watching him without speaking. Revoli leaned on the doorframe, still smelling faintly of soap, a sly but warm grin on her lips.

Kai’s gaze drifted from one to the other. His voice was quiet but heavy with meaning. “You all… did everything.”

Fara smiled faintly. “We wanted to.”

His throat tightened, the words catching before they could fully form. “Thank you. All of you.”

He let himself sink back into the pillows, and sleep claimed him again.

That night, he woke to warmth—limbs draped over him, heartbeats close.

Fara lay curled to his left, one tail coiled protectively across his stomach. Skye clung to his right arm, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. Revoli was sprawled across his legs, tangled in the blanket, breathing slow and even.

He moved gently, rubbing the base of Fara’s ear until her lips curved in a sleepy smile. He brushed Skye’s hair away from her cheek, his thumb lingering at her temple until she sighed in her sleep. His palm rested on Revoli’s back, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath.

“I love you all,” he whispered into the dim.

They didn’t wake—but each of them smiled.

Kai closed his eyes again, holding them close. For the first time in years, the weight in his chest eased. His body still ached. His heart was far from healed. But for this night—just this night—he let himself believe he didn’t need to wake from the dream.

Maybe he didn’t want to.