15. Lula
15
LULA
I haven’t seen much of Kanyan today. Not since early this morning, when he stumbled in with blood staining his shirt and pain etched across his face. He’s been gone most of the day, and my mind keeps circling back to that wound. It’s not the kind of thing you just walk off, but he seems to think he’s invincible—or maybe he just doesn’t care. Either way, it worries me.
I try to focus on the tightrope in the training room, but my balance is all over the place. My body moves, but my mind stays stuck on him—where he’s gone, what he’s doing, and whether he’s hurting himself more in the process. The rope sways under my feet, but it’s not the same today. My heart isn’t in it.
Finally, I give up.
Rosemarie is in the kitchen when I wander in, her back to me as she moves around with practiced ease. The smell of garlic and onions sizzling in oil fills the air, warm and comforting. She’s humming softly under her breath, a familiar tune I can’t quite place. She’s taken to making fresh meals daily instead of the premades she used to leave in the fridge, telling me most days, Kanyan never even came home to enjoy a freshly cooked meal. Now that I’m here, she’s changed her routine and so has he.
“Can I help?” I ask, leaning against the counter.
Rosemarie turns, her face softening when she sees me. “Nonsense, my dear. I’ll cook. You sit and keep me company.”
I don’t want to sit. Sitting means thinking and thinking means worrying.
“Please, Rosemarie,” I say, my voice edging on desperate. “Let me do something, or I’m going to lose my mind.”
She chuckles and shakes her head, finally relenting. “Fine. You can chop the vegetables. But be careful—the knife is sharp. Don’t lose a digit on my watch or Kanyan will kill me.”
I grab a cutting board and the pile of carrots and zucchini she’s laid out, feeling a small surge of relief at having something to do with my hands. The rhythmic motion of slicing vegetables helps calm the racing thoughts in my head.
As we work, we fall into easy conversation, the kind that comes naturally with Rosemarie. She has a way of making you feel like you’ve known her forever, even if you’ve only been around her for a few days.
Somehow, the topic drifts to Kanyan, and I can’t help but ask. “What’s his story?”
Rosemarie pauses, a knowing look passing across her face. She sets down the spoon she’s using to stir the sauce and leans against the counter. “Ah, Kanyan. He’s... complicated.”
I laugh softly. “I could’ve guessed that much.”
She smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness. “He’s a man who’s carried more weight than most people could bear. And yet, he keeps going, no matter what it costs him.”
“What kind of weight?” I press, curious.
Rosemarie sighs, glancing toward the door as if she’s afraid he’ll walk in and catch her talking about him. “Let’s just say his past hasn’t been kind to him. He’s seen things, done things... things he doesn’t talk about. But he has a good heart, even if he doesn’t always show it.”
I think back to last night, to the way he refused to rest even though he could barely stand. To the way his eyes darkened when I tried to press him about what had happened. There’s so much about him that’s a mystery, and I’m not sure if it draws me in or scares me off.
“Do you think he’ll be okay?” I ask quietly, my knife pausing mid-slice.
Rosemarie’s expression softens, and she reaches out to pat my hand. “If anyone can get through this, it’s Kanyan. But he’s stubborn. You might have to remind him that he’s human every once in a while.”
I nod, letting her words settle over me. The chopping slows as I lose myself in thought, picturing him out there somewhere, pushing himself too hard and refusing to ask for help.
Before I can dwell on it too much, Rosemarie claps her hands together. “Enough about him. Tell me about you, Lula. What brought you here?”
I hesitate, the question catching me off guard. My story isn’t one I like to share, but something about Rosemarie makes me feel like I can.
So, I tell her. Not everything, but enough. Enough for her to nod knowingly and offer a few quiet words of encouragement.
By the time dinner is ready, I feel a little lighter. The kitchen smells incredible, and Rosemarie’s laughter lingers in the air like a balm. But even as I set the table and help her carry the dishes out, my mind drifts back to Kanyan.
Wherever he is, I hope he’s safe. And I hope he knows there’s at least one person who’s worrying about him more than he thinks he deserves.
The clock reads past midnight when I hear the sound of the front door opening. I’m still awake, curled up on the sofa, pretending to watch TV but really just waiting for him. My body tenses at the noise, and I’m on my feet before I know it, meeting him at the door.
He looks wrecked. His hair is disheveled, his jaw tight, and there’s a dark stain blooming on his shirt—blood, seeping through the dressing from earlier. My heart twists at the sight.
“You’re hurt,” I say, moving quickly toward him. He doesn’t argue, just lets me slip an arm around his uninjured side and guide him to the sofa. His steps are heavy, his movements slow, like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his broad shoulders.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, but the grimace on his face tells me otherwise.
I ignore him and head for the first aid kit, grabbing what I need before sitting down beside him. “Take your shirt off,” I say softly.
His fingers fumble with the buttons for a moment, and then he stops, too tired to continue. I gently take over, undoing the rest of them and easing the shirt off his shoulders. The sight of the wound makes me wince—it’s angry and red, the edges of the bandage soaked through.
“You overdid it,” I tell him as I start cleaning around the wound. My hands tremble slightly against his skin, but I keep working, focusing on the task.
His eyes follow my movements, dark and unreadable. “The world doesn’t stop because I grazed myself, Lula.”
His tone is sharp, almost dismissive, and I can tell he’s angry. Maybe at himself. Maybe at whoever shot him. Maybe at everything. I don’t respond, biting back the urge to snap at him. Instead, I finish wrapping a fresh bandage around his shoulder, carefully pinning it in place before stepping back to survey my work.
“You didn’t graze yourself; you were shot,” I remind him, standing over him now. My voice is firmer this time.
He leans back into the sofa, letting his head fall against the cushions with a heavy sigh. Exhaustion rolls off him in waves, but there’s still a tension in his jaw, a tightness in his posture that tells me his mind is far from restful.
“Are you hungry? Can I fix you a drink?” I ask, trying to shift the mood, to ease the edge of whatever burden he’s caught in.
Instead of answering, he lifts his head and looks at me—really looks at me. His dark eyes narrow slightly, curiosity flickering across his face. “Did you dance today?”
The question catches me off guard. I shake my head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t in the mood,” I admit, shrugging.
He doesn’t respond right away, just studies me like he’s trying to figure me out, like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how. The silence stretches between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.
Finally, he stands, rising to his full height and towering over me. For a moment, we’re eye to eye, and I can see the storm still brewing behind his gaze. Then, without a word, he takes my hand, his grip firm but not forceful, and starts walking, leading me through the apartment.
“Kanyan—” I start to ask, but he cuts me off with a quiet “Come on.”
We stop in the gym, the space lit dimly by overhead lights. He lets go of my hand and steps back, watching me with an intensity that makes my heart race.
“Will you dance for me?” he asks, his voice low, almost a whisper.
I blink at him, caught off guard. “What?”
“Dance,” he repeats, his tone soft but insistent. “For me.”
There’s something raw in his expression, something that scrapes at the edges of my heart, like an outline. Vulnerability, maybe. Or need. Whatever it is, it makes it impossible to say no.
I hesitate, but then I nod, taking a deep breath as I walk toward the tightrope and climb the ladder. I start slow, letting the movement flow through me, shaking off the tension in my body. His eyes never leave me as I fly high above him, and for the first time, I don’t feel self-conscious under his gaze.
As I lose myself in the rhythm, I can feel the weight of the day melting away, replaced by something lighter, something freer. Kanyan doesn’t say a word, but when I glance at him, I see the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly, a ghost of a smile that softens the hard lines of his face.
When I finish, the silence stretches between us, warm and full. He steps forward, closing the distance between us as I jump from the tightrope and land on a mat, and for a moment, I think he might say something. Instead, he just nods, his expression unreadable.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice rough around the edges. Then he turns and leaves the gym, disappearing down the hallway.