Chapter 1: The Stranger in the Wild (Part 3)

I added water to the pot, dumped in some rice, tossed in a pinch of salt, and set it on the edge of the fire.

Easy.

Five minutes later

Smoke started rising. Not the good kind.

I frowned. Stirred. The water looked... weird. Starchy and thick like paste. Some of the rice had turned to mush, while the bottom layer was blackening fast. I panicked and added more water. That made it worse. The fire hissed, sputtered.

I stirred again. The spoon scraped against the bottom—and brought up a burnt layer stuck like tar.

I was sweating—half from stress, half from shame.

No. No. No.

I glanced over.

I can see him from the window, He hadn't looked up once, still rotating the deer meat slowly, pretending not to notice the literal disaster happening in the kitchen.

But the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

After a moment. I didn't hear him come up behind me, but I felt the presence. Heavy. Silent.

Then his voice, flat and amused:

"You trying to cook me dinner or kill me?"

I clenched the spoon. "It's fine," I muttered.

I turned, flushed, trying to cover the mess with my body. "I—It's not what it looks like."

"Is it?" he said dryly, looking at me. "Smells like charcoal pudding, I figured that out earlier… when you tried to bandage yourself like you were gift-wrapping a watermelon."

My face heated. "It's just rice!"

"That's what makes this tragic," he said, standing. He walked over, took one look in the pot, and sighed like I had personally offended his ancestors.

"You're so full of yourself." I said

He looked at the burned mess, then at me. "You said you knew how to cook."

"I never said I couldn't cook," I said defensively. "You assumed."

He gave me a slow, mocking nod. "Ah, my mistake. Should've guessed by the way you were assaulting that poor pot."

"Move."

"I can fix it—"

"You can't. You're cooking soup, glue, and ashes all at once, NOW MOVEE"

I stepped aside, defeated. "Fine. Go ahead, Mr. Forest Gordon Ramsay. Impress me."

He dumped out the entire pot into a sink, rinsed it without a word, and started over. Clean water. Correct rice ratio. A proper lid. Within minutes, it was quietly simmering like it had sense.

He moved like everything in his life was calculated. Even in the kitchen, he was precise. Focused. Quiet.

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

"I was going to do it right next time," I mumbled.

"I won't risk my stomach on your 'next time,'" he muttered back.

I glared at him

"You live alone in the woods and you cook like that?" I muttered.

"Survival," he said without looking up. "Unlike you, I don't rely on luck and strangers."

That stung more than I wanted it to. But I didn't answer. I just watched him. The way his hands moved. The way his jaw tensed when he do something. The way the silence around him wasn't empty—it was layered.

And for the first time since crashing into him in the wild, I realized—

There was more to this arrogant, mysterious stranger than I thought.

And I wasn't sure if that terrified me… or intrigued me.

Rice was cooked and then he took the pot and go outside, he place the pot on table. I was right behind him.

And then he goes under a sloped tin roof again, and pick the stick and secure the meat to it and rotating it slowly over the fire.

I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, watching as the flames danced in the dark.

A few minutes passed in silence before he spoke again, softer this time. "You'll eat this, right?"

I hesitated.

He didn't wait for my answer. Just said, "It's either this… or starvation."

"I'll eat," I muttered. "Just don't expect compliments."

"Good," he said simply. "I hate talking during dinner."

He turned the meat once more, then finally looked at me. "You gonna eat or just stare at me like I stabbed your pet?" back to his real version.

I scowled. "You killed a deer. I'm still processing."

"You want to survive out here or be a statue in the woods?"

I didn't answer.

He didn't care if I did. He slid a piece of the fire-roasted meat onto a rough metal plate, then walked it over and handed it to me without a word.

I hesitated.

"Go ahead," he said, voice low. "It's not poisoned. I'd waste that on someone more interesting."

I glared at him, but took the plate. It smelled better than I expected—smoky, rich, and oddly comforting.

He crouched across from me by the fire, eating in silence, like sharing food with a stranger was normal. Like none of this—forest, darkness, the fact that I nearly died today—was strange at all.

I took a small bite. And despite my pride, despite everything—

It was good.

Really good.

I hated that I was impressed.

So I said nothing.

He didn't either.

And for a while, the only sound was the crackling fire, the quiet chewing of survival, and the unspoken truth sitting between us:

I was still alive.

Because of him.

But for the first time since we met, I thought maybe… just maybe… I could survive here.

Not because he was kind.

But because he was cruel enough to survive—and quiet enough to let me learn how.

We ate in silence, sitting near the fire under the open sky. The meat was perfectly seasoned—smoky, tender, with a bite of heat. And the rice... was cooked. Like actually cooked. Not burned. Not sticky. Just right.

Of course.

He didn't comment. Didn't boast. Just ate, calm and quiet, eyes on the fire, the shadows dancing across the rough angles of his face.

I chewed slowly, still a little embarrassed but too hungry to care anymore.

When we were done, he stood up and took my plate without asking. Cleaned it. Doused the fire. All without a single word.

Then, just as he turned to walk toward the darker side of the cabin, he paused.

Looked at me once—expression unreadable in the low light.

Then he said it, low and final:

"Don't cook. Ever again."

And walked off.

I blinked, stunned. My mouth opened, ready to protest—but he was already gone, disappearing into the shadows near the cabin like some infuriating ghost of the woods.

What I didn't see—what I couldn't see—was the way one side of his mouth tugged up as he turned away.

A smirk.

Quick. Faint.

Like teasing wasn't something he let himself do often.

But this time… he did.

And I had no idea.