Kairo woke to the smell of garlic and herbs.
It was after midnight.
He followed the scent to the kitchen, where Naya stood barefoot, hair loose, wearing one of his oversized shirts.
She froze when she saw him.
"You're supposed to be asleep."
"So are you."She looked down at the pan. "Couldn't."
"Nightmares?"Her jaw tightened.
He leaned against the counter, softer now. "You cook when you can't sleep."
She didn't deny it.
"Military habit," she said. "Keeps my hands busy."
"Who taught you?"
"My mother," she replied quietly. "Before I learned how to kill."
The words hung heavy between them.
She plated the food and slid it toward him. "Eat."He did.
And for the first time in weeks, the tight knot in his chest loosened.
"This is incredible," he said.
She watched him closely. "Food doesn't judge."
"Neither do you," he said. "Not really."
Her eyes lifted.
"You look at me like I'm already broken," he continued. "And still worth protecting."
Her throat bobbed.
"Because you are," she whispered.
The silence that followed was different.
Tender.
Dangerous.Their hands brushed on the counter.
Neither pulled away.
But neither leaned in.
Yet.
Because some hearts are guarded not by walls but by scars.