Chapter Four #2
Anna brings a hand to her temple, feeling foolish, because of course that’s what it looks like.
She takes a breath, bracing herself. “We aren’t married—not in a way the church or government would recognize—but he is mine and mine alone.
We never needed a ceremony or a ring to symbolize our commitment to each other, and Khiran doesn’t have a family name for the same reason I don’t.
We were both orphans in this world. He didn’t—”
“He leaves you up here, all by yourself, for weeks at a time.” Jiro interrupts, face twisting as he looks away. “I mean, you went out and hired a stupid kid even though you didn’t actually need help, just so you wouldn’t be alone.”
Anna’s heart drops. Tumbles. “Is that what you think?” she breathes, the words bruising on her tongue. “Jiro… I didn’t bring you here because I was tired of being alone. I brought you here so you wouldn’t be.” She catches his gaze, holds it with a desperation she knows he must feel. “And Khiran—”
She swallows, wets her lips. The hand towel is twisted in her hands, the embroidered flowers she stitched straining in her grasp.
“I can’t explain to you the lengths he would go for the sake of my happiness, but please understand: if I wanted him to stay, he would.
Even when he shouldn’t. Even when he can’t. ”
Jiro goes quiet, his righteous confidence melting away into something uncertain. The firm line of his narrow shoulders sags. “I told you I didn’t want charity.”
“It was never about charity, Jiro. How could it be when I’m gaining something too?” Her chest heaves with the force of her exhale, as if she could breathe out the noose around her heart. “I don’t mind being alone, but that doesn’t mean you being here hasn’t brought me so much joy.”
For a sliver of a moment, she thinks he’ll argue—that those stubborn defenses she quietly convinced him to shed will rise up stronger than ever. Instead, he looks around the kitchen, eyes lingering on the meal they’ve been preparing since morning. “So this is my home?”
It breaks her heart that he feels the need to ask. “Yes. For as long as you want it.”
He nods, tongue in his cheek. When he meets her eyes, there’s a determined edge to his stare. “Then I don’t want any more of your money.”
Anna blinks, her lips parting around a gentle protest, but he doesn’t give her the opportunity.
“If you pay me, it’s just a job that happens to come with meals and a roof,” he says, voice firm. “I don’t want that. Not anymore. I just—I want to be home for Christmas.” He takes a deep breath, swallowing, before he adds, “Please.”
Anna gives him a trembling smile, her eyes glassy. “Welcome home, then.”
When they’re in the living room, presents in their laps, Jiro hesitates.
His eyes flit between Khiran and the red wrapping paper.
As Anna predicted, he doesn’t refuse it, though she’s almost certain there would have been a snide remark or two had it not been for their conversation in the kitchen.
He rips the gold ribbon, pulls back the paper, and pauses.
In his hands is a stack of paper. Anna can make out Khiran’s loopy scrawl from the couch.
“The chef at a patisserie I frequent was kind enough to share some of his recipes,” Khiran explains, his fingers laced in his lap. “I took the liberty of translating them.”
Jiro is silent, removing the rest of the wrapping paper and thumbing through the pages with careful precision. Anna doesn’t miss the subtle tremble of his hand. “It’s French?”
Khiran breathes a laugh. “Yes. Considering the amount of macarons that mysteriously went missing, I took the risk of assuming you might have had a change of heart.”
Flushing, Jiro sets the bound pages on his lap. He glances at Anna, sees the warmth and happiness in her expression and swallows thickly before dropping his gaze to his lap. To his gift. “Thank you,” he mutters, the words thick and awkward but no less genuine. “That’s… really thoughtful.”
Khiran clears his throat, shifting his weight. “Some of the ingredients are harder to come by, but if you’re in need of something, I’ll do what I can to provide it.”
Jiro nods, shifting awkwardly. “I’m… gonna go check on the chicken.”
Once he’s left, Khiran releases a sigh. “At least he didn’t burn it.”
Anna shakes her head, placing a tender kiss in the hollow of his cheek. “It was perfect. I’m not sure I could have thought of something better suited.” She studies his face. “I had assumed your sweet tooth was responsible for my missing macarons. How’d you know Jiro was the one who ate them?”
The corner of his lips twitch into a smile. “You savor your sweets. That box didn’t make it forty-eight hours. It was fairly easy to deduce.” He nods toward the thin gift in her lap. “Go on, then.”
Anna opens it slowly, peeling the paper with careful hands and growing pleasure. “It’s a record!” She beams up at him, the light in her eyes teasing. “Were you getting tired of the same ones?” They already had several they played regularly, but the music collection was vastly outnumbered by books.
He takes the album from her hands, grinning as he stands. “I’m afraid my motives were much more selfish.”
“Oh?” she asks, laughter coloring her voice.
He pulls the record from the sleeve, the black vinyl winking at her in the light. “Do you remember The Cotton Club?”
The club in New York. Where she danced with him in a dress made of silver beads and magic. Sometimes she thinks about that night and swears she can still remember the sound those beads made when scattered across the floor of her old flat. “Of course I do.”
He puts the record on, the empty static from the needle replaced with trilling notes from piano keys followed by a deep, crooning voice. “I’ve been thinking…”
Anna smiles. “Have you?”
“Yes.” He turns to her, taking her hand and coaxing her from the sofa. Anna lets him lead her to the center of the cozy living room. He adjusts his hold on her hand, his long fingers folding over hers while his other splays over her waist. “It’s been far too long since I’ve danced with you.”
Her cheek rests against his shoulder, her smile so wide she’s certain he must feel it. “I think I stepped on your toes at least five times that night.”
“I think I counted seven,” he teases, grinning against her crown. He shifts, giving her hand a squeeze and placing a kiss to her temple before dropping his voice to a murmur only she can hear. “Holding you is still worth every bit of pain.”
She holds him closer, closing her eyes and enjoying the feel of their bodies swaying.
When she opens them, she catches sight of Jiro hovering in the doorway—an odd expression creasing his brow.
Anna pauses, lifting her head from Khiran’s shoulder.
Jiro shifts his weight, awkwardly gesturing to the kitchen.
“The chicken is done, I think. If you wanna check it?”
Anna lets her hand fall from Khiran’s shoulder, offering him a tender smile. “Save me another dance?”
The scoff that leaves him is warm. “As if I would have anyone else.”
She brightens, giving his hand a squeeze before releasing him. “I’ll go take a look,” she tells Jiro, motioning toward the sofa. “Why don’t you and Khiran set up one of the board games? Maybe Scrabble?”
Jiro frowns. “He always tries to cheat!”
Khiran is already fishing the box from the cabinet, rolling his eyes. “I’m telling you, chapeau is a type of hat.”
“It’s French!”
“So is the word menu, but I’m certain you’d allow it.”
Anna shakes her head. “Jiro, grab the dictionary, would you? Khiran, if it’s not in there, you can’t play it.”
“It would’ve been there if it were a newer edition,” he grumbles weakly.
She turns, heading toward the kitchen, but she catches Jiro’s retort (“then buy one”) before their voices become too muffled to interpret.
Taking a meat thermometer, she checks the internal temperature before deeming it ready to remove from the oven.
She sets it on the counter, covering the dish with a lid.
She’ll let it rest a bit before they carve it and serve dinner.
It should give them enough time to at least start a game.
Heading back to the living room, she notices with no small amount of apprehension that they’ve gone quiet. The only thing she hears is the hollow click of the wooden tiles being set on their trays. She braces herself, fully expecting to find their silence to be anything but comfortable.
Then Jiro’s voice, soft as it is, reaches her before she turns the corner. “You really do love her… don’t you?”
Anna stills, listening for his response.
Khiran breathes a laugh. “Love is too small a word,” he murmurs, “but I suppose it will do.”
A smile tugs at her lips, and Anna takes a moment to lean against the wall and hope.
Things are improving.
Jiro still tosses an occasional jab Khiran’s way, but they feel more pushing than painful.
As if the game he started no longer holds any stakes, but he’s still playing out of sheer stubbornness.
He no longer prods at the parts that hurt—no longer mentions the time Khiran’s away or mocks him with a laundry list of the things he missed.
It’s a subtle truce, but it’s enough to smooth the tension between them into something comfortable.
Anna still occasionally catches the teen casting skeptical looks at some of the things Khiran brings home—he was particularly baffled by the samosas.
One day, when they’re in the garden, he summons the courage to ask her where it all comes from.
“Khiran travels a lot,” she answers, a truth so thin it feels like a lie. “The city offers a lot of food options we don’t see around here. It’s why he makes a point to bring it. He knows I enjoy trying new things.”