The next day, I finished work early.
There was still some time before dinner, and when I remembered our fridge was nearly empty, I figured I’d swing by the local shop for a quick top-up.

The doctor had said it clearly—fresh, light food.
If you want that kind of cooking to actually taste good, it needs to be made fresh every day.

When I got home, Elliott’s bedroom door was closed, the living room empty and still.
I figured he was probably still asleep, so I didn’t bother him.
Just headed straight into the kitchen to start prepping dinner.

I was halfway through sorting the groceries and reaching for the pork bones I’d washed to start a soup, when suddenly a voice spoke up behind me.

I jumped.

Turned around—

And there he was.

Elliott stood in the doorway holding a box of fried chicken, with a bottle of what looked like strong Eastern European liquor tucked under one arm.

I couldn’t read the label, but it was clearly strong.

He didn’t seem to notice how fast my expression dropped.
In fact, he even raised an eyebrow, gestured at the takeout box, and asked if I wanted to join him.

My face must’ve darkened fast, because he instantly faltered.
His voice got smaller and smaller, and the hand holding the chicken slowly lowered itself, like a wilting flag.

—

What happened after that doesn’t really need much explaining.

Allow me to sum it up: that night’s dinner featured one box of fried chicken in the bin, a bottle of vodka down the drain, and Elliott Lin slouched at the table like a scolded puppy, quietly sipping his soup. I sat next to him, reciting the doctor’s instructions from start to finish—twice, maybe three times over.

No smoking.
No alcohol.
No takeout.

Yes, I know I was being annoying. But what can I do? I’m the one stuck with the patient.

To my surprise, he didn’t say a word.

No complaining, no snarky remarks like he gave Teresa. Just quietly drinking his soup, listening to me nag, eating every last bit of vegetable I picked out for him. Not a single groan.

“Actually… you really don’t have to go to all this trouble,” he said, once dinner was over. His tone was cautious.
“There’s light, healthy takeout too, you know. I can totally—”

Takeout, again.
I raised an eyebrow, pretending to be mildly annoyed.
“What, my cooking’s not good enough for you? Detective, I’m only fussing for now. Once you’re recovered and your stomach’s back in shape, go eat whatever deep-fried nonsense you want. I’m not stopping you.”

He clearly hadn’t expected that.
Stared at me, then hurried to explain, in all sincerity:

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. Your cooking is… really good. The soup’s light but full of flavour. It tastes like something that could only come from home. I can tell you put so much care into it.”

“Actually… I haven’t had soup like this in years…
I…I just wanted to say thank you.”

The look on his face—as if this simple meal were some kind of delicacy—made my face heat up, and I didn’t know how to respond.

So I ducked my head and pretended to focus on my food.

But after a moment, I glanced up and asked, trying to sound casual,
“That soup you mentioned… is that a flavour you really like?”

He was mid-reach into his pocket for a cigarette.

I gave him a look.
He went red, and very obediently offered up the pack like a guilty schoolkid.

Then he thought about it for a second, and said seriously:
“…Not exactly.”

“If I had to say… it’s actually something Lucian used to like.”

My heart skipped.

Just a beat.
But hard.

He said it like it was nothing—just some old story, maybe even a funny memory.

I saw the corner of his mouth twitch up without meaning to.

“He was the kind of person who thought eating and sleeping were a waste of time. He could survive on coffee three meals a day, seven days a week. His stomach paid the price for it, too.

So I used to cook for him. Chase him around with homemade soup…”

He paused.

“…Kind of like what you just did.”

I blinked.

Totally thrown.

“What’s that face for?” he asked, watching me with mild amusement.

“Never seen an Alpha who can cook?”

“…Not exactly,” I said, flustered.

The conversation had clearly just jumped onto a landmine trail, and I had no idea how to steer it back.

“I just… I thought…”

“…Thought he was the one making soup for me?”

Elliott twirled his chopsticks—classic nicotine craving move (this damn chain smoker, I thought to myself)—and actually gave the question some real thought. The smile on his face deepened.

“You do know he was a forensic pathologist, right?”

He looked up at me then, catching me mid-sip, clearly trying to hide my awkwardness behind the bowl.

There was a glint in his eye, like a kid pulling a harmless prank.

“If you’d ever seen him handle a kitchen knife—trust me—you wouldn’t want to put anything he chopped anywhere near your mouth.”

I choked.

Literally.

The soup went flying out of my mouth in a spray of broth, stray greens, and pork bones—splattering across the entire table.