Page 7

Dahlia

I woke the next morning to the ear-piercing screech of the smoke detector blaring through the house.

I shot upright, heart slamming against my ribs. “What the hell—?”

The sharp smell of something very burnt wafted down the hall. I threw off the covers and bolted out of bed, skidding into the hallway in my oversized sleep shirt and fuzzy socks.

The kitchen was a disaster zone.

Smoke curled up from a blackened skillet on the stovetop. Kieran was flailing wildly with a dish towel, swearing loudly as he swatted at a small fire licking out of the pan. Bits of scorched something—possibly zucchini at one point—were smoldering in the sink.

Sunny sat in the doorway, ears tilted back and tail flicking with disdain, the very picture of feline judgment. Oleander, my menace of a rabbit, was somehow out of his hutch and blissfully chewing on a half-mangled carrot near Kieran’s feet like the chaos didn’t concern him in the slightest.

“What the actual fuck is happening!?” I yelled, rushing past Sunny and straight to the stove.

Kieran stepped back, towel still smoking at the edges. “I had it handled !”

I yanked the pan off the burner and slammed it into the sink, turning the faucet on full blast. Steam hissed up in a furious cloud. I darted up onto a chair and smacked the smoke detector with the end of a broom handle until it shut off with a pathetic beep.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Kieran coughed once, smearing ash on his cheek. “Good morning, Flower.”

I turned around slowly. “ Good morning?”

Sunny meowed as if to second my disbelief.

“There was going to be breakfast,” Kieran said, chest puffing out in defense. “I woke early. Found your garden out back. Dug up some of the vegetables. Figured I'd repay you for the not-poison soup and you letting me stay.”

I blinked. “You dug up my garden ?”

“I left some.” He gestured toward the back door. “The tomatoes betrayed me again, so I focused on the root vegetables.”

My gaze swept over the carnage. Half a burnt leek was stuck to the wall. My favorite wooden spoon was singed and smoldering on the counter.

Oleander hopped up onto Kieran’s boot and started nibbling on the laces.

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “How—why— what made you think you could cook?”

Kieran shrugged, looking half-proud, half-defeated. “I woke up early. Read some of the books in your living room. One of them had a section on rustic cuisine. Thought I’d give it a go.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You mean the Victorian Home Cooking coffee table book?”

He paused. “…Yes. That’s the one.”

I stared at him for a long beat, then burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it.

Kieran frowned. “I fail to see the humor in a woman waking up to a thoughtful, homemade meal.”

“You set my kitchen on fire with a turnip , Kieran.”

“It was a parsnip. And the fire was controlled .”

I shook my head, still laughing, and crossed to the sink to rinse out the skillet. “Next time, just let me cook.”

“Fine. The rabbit started it.”

Oleander thumped once in agreement and hopped toward the living room.

Sunny sneezed dramatically and walked away like he couldn’t be associated with any of us.

“Alright, you scorched the food, smoked up my kitchen, and possibly traumatized my pets,” I said, hands on my hips, “so now you get to learn the joy of doing the dishes.”

Kieran narrowed his eyes at the mountain of charred pans and crusty bowls stacked in the sink. “I battled hellfire this morning, and now you're punishing me with peasant chores?”

I handed him a sponge. “Welcome to domestic life, Your Grumpiness.”

I turned on the faucet and adjusted the temperature. “It’s a sink, Kieran. Warm water. Soap. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat. This is the bare minimum of not living like a disaster goblin.”

He grumbled under his breath but started clumsily scrubbing a scorched pan while I dried the less tragic pieces beside him. It was awkward at first—he kept dropping utensils and was overly fascinated by the way the suds clung to his fingers—but he got the hang of it.

“I think I’m actually getting the hang of—” clang . A fork clattered to the floor. “Never mind.”

I snorted and handed him another pan. “So, is this how it’s gonna be? Every day, I find a new way you nearly destroy my house, and we cap it off with life skills boot camp?”

He didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed as he rinsed the pan under the water, the suds swirling down the drain.

“I have some bad news,” he said finally, not looking at me.

I stiffened a little. “That’s not a fun segue.”

“This morning,” he continued, “when I went into your garden, I couldn’t reach the back corner. Past the tall hedges.”

“Okay…?”

“I physically couldn’t move forward. It was like... like hitting an invisible wall. I tried again, harder. Same result. The air got thick. My chest tightened. My skin itched like I was being burned from the inside.”

I paused with a dish towel in my hand. “And you’re just telling me this now ?”

“I didn’t want to ruin the mood while I was trying to poison you with parsnips,” he muttered.

“That’s—actually fair,” I admitted. “But seriously. What do you think it means?”

He exhaled heavily, setting a cleaned pan aside. “I think I may be bound to the locket. To you. I don’t know yet. But I’m not free. I can’t just leave.”

I leaned against the counter, staring at him. “So you’re stuck?”

He nodded, rubbing a hand through his still-damp hair. “Seems like it.”

I let that settle for a moment, the sound of running water filling the space between us. Kieran, an ancient, magically-bound man with a beard that could probably write its own memoir, was stuck in my house, with me. Possibly forever.

Kieran froze as Oleander hopped into the kitchen, sniffed the floor near his boots, then butted his head gently against his ankle.

“What the hell is he doing?”

I grinned, “Oh no. He likes you now.”

“Well, that makes one of us,” Kieran grumbled, though he didn’t step away.

“Well,” I said finally, handing him another plate, “I guess it’s a good thing you’re learning to do dishes.”

He gave me a dry look. “If this is eternity, I demand a sponge with more dignity.”

“Tough shit, you’re using the pink one with the smiling cat face.”

He groaned like I’d stabbed him, but took the plate anyway.

At least he didn’t try to set anything else on fire.