Chapter 8
River Stone
I stare at the timeline on my monitor, the playhead blinking at me like an accusation. I’m supposed to be cutting together the interview with Mrs. Morrison, layering in B-roll of the lighthouse and the beach. I’ve had this footage for weeks. I know exactly what shots I want to use.
But I can’t focus. My mind keeps drifting back to yesterday.
To the way Kiera looked when she got that text about the apartment, her whole face lighting up with hope and excitement.
To how nervous she was walking up those stairs, fidgeting with her hair the way she does when she’s trying to hide how she’s feeling.
To the questions I asked Martha while Kiera watched, her eyes wide.
And then the hug.
I close my eyes and I’m right back there, feeling the sudden weight of her in my arms, the way she pressed against me without hesitation.
For those few seconds, all her walls were down.
She was just happy, uninhibited, trusting.
And the way she fit against me—like my arms were made specifically to hold her.
I wanted to freeze that moment. Memorize every detail. The floral scent of her shampoo. The warmth of her body. The way my heart kicked into overdrive the instant she touched me.
And then she pulled away, and I saw it in her eyes—that flash of awareness, maybe even fear. She felt it too, whatever this is between us. And it scared her enough to put the walls right back up.
I scrub my hands over my face and try to refocus on the screen. This is ridiculous. I’m acting like a teenager with his first crush instead of a grown man who should have better control over his thoughts.
The doorbell rings.
I glance at the clock on my monitor. Two o’clock. I’m not expecting anyone, and Kiera isn’t supposed to be here until six.
I push back from my desk and head to the front door, curiosity overriding my frustration with my inability to work. When I open it, Kiera is standing on my doorstep with a reusable grocery bag in her arms.
My heart does that flutter thing it always does when I see her.
She’s wearing dark jeans and a light blue t-shirt that brings out her eyes, her pink-streaked hair loose around her shoulders today instead of in its usual ponytail.
She looks nervous and determined at the same time, and I have no idea why she’s here four hours early.
“Hey,” I say, stepping aside to let her in. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi.” She walks past me into the entryway, clutching the grocery bag like it might try to escape. “I know I’m early. I hope that’s okay. I just—I needed extra time for prep today.”
I close the door and follow her toward the kitchen. “Extra time?”
She sets the bag on the counter and turns to face me, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I wanted to make you something special. To thank you for yesterday. For coming with me to look at the apartment, and for knowing all the right questions to ask, and for—” She stops, takes a breath.
“You made a big deal less scary, and I wanted to do something nice for you.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest. “Kiera, you don’t have to thank me. I was happy to help.”
“I know I don’t have to.” She starts unpacking the grocery bag, pulling out containers and packages I don’t immediately recognize.
“But I want to. So I did some research last night, and I found out that Koreans make galbi for celebrations and for people who are important to them. It’s a special occasion dish.
” She glances at me, and there’s vulnerability in her expression.
“And you are. Important, I mean. So I’m making you galbi tonight. ”
I’m not sure what to say. No one’s ever made me a celebratory dish before.
My parents never even took me out to eat when I got the lead role in Kid Logic.
They always thought it was just a hobby.
Kiera spending hours researching Korean food and coming early to prepare something special just for me—it feels intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
“You’re making me galbi?” My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
“If you want it.” She’s pulling out what looks like short ribs now, and I can see they’ve already been scored.
“I know you’re probably busy with editing, and I promise I’ll stay out of your way.
The marinade just needs a few hours in the fridge before I can grill the meat, so I came early to get it ready. ”
“Kiera.” I move closer, leaning against the counter beside her. “That’s—thank you. Really. I love galbi. But you don’t need to do all this just because I looked at an apartment with you.”
“It wasn’t just looking at an apartment.
” She stops unpacking and meets my eyes.
“River, I had no idea what I was doing. I would have missed half the things you noticed. And you asked all those questions like you actually cared whether or not the place was safe for me.” Her voice softens.
“That meant something. A lot, actually. So let me do this, okay?”
The sincerity in her expression does something to me. Makes my stomach drop and my throat thick. Is she so used to people not caring, not showing up, not sticking around, that basic decency feels extraordinary to her?
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Thank you. This is really thoughtful.”
A small smile breaks across her face, and she goes back to unpacking the groceries. “Now go. Get back to your editing. I know you have deadlines.”
I don’t move. “Do you need help?”
“No. I’ve got this.” She waves a hand toward the hallway. “Go work. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? Because I can chop vegetables or measure ingredients or—”
“River.” She gives me a pointed look. “I’m trying to do something nice for you. That doesn’t work if you’re in here doing all the prep work.”
“I could keep you company?”
“You’re impossible.” But she’s smiling now, shaking her head. “Fine. You can stay. But you’re not just standing there watching me. If you’re going to be in the kitchen, you’re going to help.”
“Deal.” I push off from the counter. “Put me to work.”
She considers for a moment, then points to a bag of green onions. “You can slice those. Thin, on a diagonal.”
I grab the green onions and a cutting board, settling in beside her at the counter. She’s pulling ingredients from the fridge now—soy sauce, brown sugar, sesame oil—and measuring them into a large bowl. Her movements are confident, precise. She’s done this kind of prep work before.
“So,” I say, starting on the green onions, “how long did you research Korean cooking last night?”
“A couple of hours.” She doesn’t look up from the bowl where she’s whisking together ingredients. “I wanted to make sure I got it right. Galbi is supposed to be this really special dish, and I didn’t want to mess it up.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fantastic.” I finish one green onion and start on the next. “You know, no one’s ever made me a celebratory meal before. Not like this.”
She glances at me, surprise flickering across her face. “Really? What about when Kid Logic got picked up? Or on your birthday?”
“My parents didn’t...” I search for the right words. “They aren’t really the type to cook. They—” I shrug. “I haven’t really had people in my life who do stuff like this.”
Kiera’s quiet for a moment, her hands stilling in the marinade. “That’s sad.”
“Maybe a little.” I sweep the sliced green onions into a small bowl. “What else can I do?”
She hands me a knob of ginger and a grater. “Grate this. About two tablespoons worth.”
We work in companionable silence for a few minutes, the kitchen filling with the sharp, sweet smell of soy sauce and sesame oil.
I watch Kiera out of the corner of my eye as she works—the way she bites her bottom lip when she’s concentrating, the efficient movements of her hands, the little satisfied nod she gives when she tastes the marinade and decides it’s right.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, grating the ginger carefully.
“Sure.”
“Are you close with Kiki? I know she took you in when you came to the island, but were you close before that?”
Kiera’s expression softens. “Yeah, we’re close.
We always have been, even when we were kids.
” She pours the marinade over the short ribs, making sure each piece is coated.
“Our parents worked a lot just to make ends meet. My mom worked retail, and my dad had a job at a manufacturing plant. After our grandmother passed when I was three, it was mostly just Kiki and me at home.”
“That must have been hard.” I set down the grater and turn to face her fully. “Being that young and basically raising yourselves.”
She shrugs, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
“It was what it was. Kiki did her best to take care of me. She was only eleven when Grandma died, but she figured out how to cook basic meals, and when I got a little older she helped me with homework, and made sure I got to school on time.” She covers the bowl with plastic wrap and puts it in the fridge.
“That’s actually how I learned to cook. Out of necessity.
If we didn’t make something, we ate frozen dinners or cereal for the third night in a row. ”
The image hits me hard—two young girls fending for themselves, trying to figure out how to survive on their own because the adults in their lives were too busy or too absent. And Kiera, learning to cook not because she loved it at first, but because she had to.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “That’s a lot for a kid to deal with.”
“It made me self-sufficient.” She leans against the counter, crossing her arms. “And it gave me something I’m good at. So I guess it wasn’t all bad.” She tilts her head, studying me. “What about you? What was it like growing up as a childhood television star? That must have been surreal.”
I knew this question was coming eventually, but it still makes my stomach tighten.
Most people ask about Kid Logic with this breathless excitement, like being on TV automatically made my childhood magical.
Kiera’s tone is different—genuinely curious, but careful, like she knows there might be complicated feelings underneath.
“It was weird,” I admit, measuring my words. “I loved acting, loved being on set, loved the work itself. But everything around it—the pressure, the expectations, the way people treated me differently—that was hard.”
“Your family must have been proud though, right?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “My siblings were busy with their own lives and successes. And my parents...” I pause, trying to figure out how to explain this without sounding bitter.
“They never really saw acting as a legitimate career. Even when Kid Logic was at its peak, when I was on magazine covers and winning awards, they treated it like a phase I’d grow out of. ”
Kiera’s eyebrows draw together. “How could they think it was a phase? You were successful. You were good at it.”
“Because it wasn’t what they valued.” I run a hand through my hair, surprised at how much I want to tell her this.
I don’t talk about my family much, especially not the complicated parts.
But something about Kiera makes me want to be honest. “My mom wanted me to go to an Ivy League school, become a lawyer or a doctor or go into finance like my brother. She didn’t like that I was acting. ”
“But you were a kid,” Kiera says, and there’s an edge of indignation in her voice that makes something warm bloom in my chest. “You were doing something you loved and were talented at. That should have been enough.”
“You’d think.” I lean against the counter beside her, our shoulders almost touching. “Every success felt diminished because it wasn’t the right kind of success. When Kid Logic got renewed for a fourth season, she reminded me that I should still be thinking about college and a ‘real career.’“
Kiera is quiet for a moment, and when I glance at her, her expression is thoughtful and sad. “That must have been lonely. Having this huge success but not being able to share it with the people who were supposed to care the most.”
“Yeah.” The word comes out rough. “That’s exactly it. Lonely.”
She reaches over and puts her hand on mine where it’s resting on the counter. The touch is gentle, grounding. Not pity—understanding.
“For what it’s worth,” she says softly, “I think what you did was incredible. I’ve seen the way you talk about filmmaking, the passion you have for capturing stories. That doesn’t come from nowhere. You’ve always cared about this work, even when you were a kid. That matters.”
I turn my hand over, palm up, and she doesn’t pull away. Our fingers curl together naturally, and I’m acutely aware of every point of contact—her palm against mine, the slight tremor in her fingers, the warmth of her skin.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it for so much more than just the words. For listening. For understanding. For not judging me for the complicated relationship I have with my family’s expectations.
We stand there for a moment, hands joined, the afternoon light streaming through the kitchen windows and casting everything in gold.
Kiera’s looking at me with those brilliant blue eyes, and her walls are down—really down, not just cracked but fully lowered—and I can see everything she’s feeling written clearly on her face.
She cares. About me, about my story, about the things that hurt me.
And I realize with sudden, crystal clarity that I’m falling for her. Not just attracted to her, not just intrigued by her—falling. Hard and fast and completely. I swallow.
“River,” she says quietly, and there’s something vulnerable in the way she says my name. Like she’s testing it out, seeing how it feels to be this close, this open.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you told me. About your mom, and the pressure, and all of it.” She squeezes my hand gently. “You deserved better than that.”
My throat tightens. “So did you. With your parents, and everything that happened.”
A shadow crosses her face at the mention of her parents, but she doesn’t pull away. “Maybe we both deserved better. But we’re here now, right? Figuring it out.”
“Together,” I add, and I squeeze her hand back.
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Sure,” she says, but she pulls her hand out of mine and grabs the bowl she used to mix the marinade. “I guess I’d better clean up.”
I hold in a sigh. I did it again. I scared her away. I turn and open the dishwasher. “You rinse, and I’ll put them in.”
“Sounds good,” she says, her tone professional again.
I kick myself for pushing her too far. When am I going to learn?