Rehab for SuperVillains (18+)-Chapter 12: Lunch

They collapsed, tangled and slick—her legs sliding down, sprawling across the cot as she rolled half-atop him, panting, her scarred cheek pressed to his chest again. Her breath rasped—"Mmm..."—soft now, sated, amber eyes half-lidded as she nuzzled closer, crimson hair sticking to his skin. Kael's hand found her hair, stroking the damp strands, a smirk tugging his lips as his chest heaved, slowing.

"Guess we were not done," he murmured, voice rough but warm, fingers tracing a scar along her shoulder. She hummed, a low, lazy sound, her hand resting on his stomach, scarred fingers curling against him. The morning stretched into noon, the light shifting higher, and his stomach growled—a sharp, mundane reminder that broke the haze.

He shifted, easing her off gently, and sat up, the cot creaking as he rubbed his neck. "Lunch," he said, half to himself, standing to stretch—muscles taut, red marks from her nails stark against his back. "We've burned through everything since dawn. Gotta eat." He glanced at her, sprawled there, sweat-slick and glowing, and grinned. "You stay. I'll cook."

Rhea propped herself on an elbow, hair falling over one eye, her breath still uneven. "Let me come," she said, voice quiet but firm, amber eyes catching his—a flicker of that vulnerability again, softer now. "I'm not... just lying here."

Kael paused, mid-step, then turned, studying her—scarred, fierce, his but not broken. After a beat, he nodded, a faint smirk breaking through. "Alright, firebrand. Join me. But you're chopping—my arms are shot." He held out a hand, pulling her up when she took it, her grip steady, warm.

They stumbled out together—her leaning into him, his arm slung loose around her waist—the Haven's gray walls fading behind them as the kitchen's clatter awaited. The air shifted, lighter, threaded with something new—sweat and sex giving way to a quiet, unspoken tether, forged and held.

A skillet slammed onto the burner with a clang that ricocheted off the kitchen's grimy tiles, oil spitting as it hit the heat—sharp, acrid, slicing through the Haven's stale hush. Rhea stood rigid by the counter, arms crossed tight, scarred fingers clawing the hem of Kael's white t-shirt—too loose, too his, grazing her thighs like a taunt. Her crimson hair spilled wild and damp, clinging to her shoulders, and the faint stink of burnt wood and sweat hung on her—ghosts of their morning's chaos. The shirt barely hid her black panties, leaving her legs bare, scarred, and prickling in the cool air, and she shifted—restless, exposed—amber eyes glinting with a mix of irritation and something softer she wouldn't name.

She'd balked when he flung the shirt at her—his scent, cedar and musk, clinging to it like a brand—but her own clothes were a shredded mess, so she'd gritted her teeth and yanked it on. Now, standing here, it felt like a tether she couldn't snap, and it pissed her off. Kael didn't blink—cracked an egg into the pan with a flick, yolk sizzling loud, his movements smooth, cocky. Shirtless still, red claw marks streaked his back—her work—and his jeans slung low, hips shifting as he stirred, spatula scraping metal.

"Bet you never paid a dime to cook," he said, voice rolling low, a jab wrapped in a grin as he glanced her way. "No gas, no matches—just snap those fingers, and whoosh, instant blaze. Cheater."

Rhea's eyes narrowed, a scoff ripping out as she snatched a bread loaf and tore into it—teeth flashing, savage. "Oh, fuck off. How many kitchens you turn to ash playing savior?" Her voice scratched, rough from their earlier tangle, and she chewed hard, amber gaze daring him to bite back.

"None," he fired, flipping the egg with a twist—golden, perfect—smirk widening. "I don't torch whole damn cities for kicks, firebrand. That's your specialty." He leaned closer, cedar scent cutting through the oil's tang. "What was it—bad day, or did those blocks just ask to burn?"

Her glare flared—hot enough to spark if the collar weren't choking her power—and she bared her teeth, bread crumbling in her fist. "You're a prick," she snarled, but her lips twitched—half a smirk, barely contained. "They deserved it, and you'd cry for a week if I aimed at you." She tossed the bread chunk at him—fast, playful—hitting his chest, and he caught it, popping it in his mouth with a grin.

"Still here, though," he said, chewing, hazel eyes glinting as he slid a plate her way—eggs steaming, toast crisp, apple slices bright. "Eat, pyro. Don't waste my masterpiece."

She glared at the food, fork hovering—scarred hand flexing. "What's this, your big assassination move? Poison me after all that?" Her tone dripped acid, amber eyes flicking up, testing him.

Kael snorted, biting his toast—crunch loud in the quiet. "Yeah, nursed you back just to spike your eggs. Genius, right?" He swiped an apple slice from her plate, popping it in with a wink. "Relax—I'd rather fight you fair than cheat with breakfast."

Rhea's snort broke free—sharp, reluctant—as she stabbed the eggs, yolk spilling rich and warm. "You'd try if you weren't so fucking dense," she muttered, shoving a bite in, chewing slow. "Collar's on—I'm a sitting duck. Perfect chance to end me." The taste hit—simple, good—and her glare softened, just a flicker, before she masked it.

He leaned forward, elbows thudding the table, grin sharp. "Where's the fun in that? I'd rather dodge your flames than bury you, Rhea." His voice dipped, gravelly, teasing, and he stole another slice—her fork darted, missing him by a hair. "See? Keeps me sharp."

The clink of metal and the fan's low drone settled between them—not stiff, not cozy, just... raw. Rhea ate slower, the solitude she'd worn like armor cracking—years of cold meals alone, no one to jab or steal her food, now this: Kael across, grinning, swiping her damn apples. It sank in—warm, jagged—and she hated how it stuck, how it felt... right.

"Weird as hell," she muttered, rolling an apple slice between her fingers, voice low, half-lost in the fan's hum.

Kael cocked his head, mid-chew. "What's weird?"

She flicked the slice at him—caught it again, damn him—and growled, "This—you, me, sitting here like I'm not itching to roast you." Her amber eyes locked his, fierce but fraying, probing the shift.

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He grinned, catching the slice and biting it—crunch sharp. "Day's early, firebrand. Plenty of time to try." His voice lilted, a dare, and she huffed—half a laugh, real—popping her own apple in, chewing hard. "Bet you'd miss my cooking, though."