Chapter 32: The Haunting Porridge

The only way to keep your health is to eat what you don't want, drink what you don't like, and do what you'd rather not.

Mark Twain:

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Recognition flickered across her face, and a single tear traced its way down her cheek.

"What happened?" she whispered, her voice fragile yet steady.

The boy didn't answer right away.

His focus remained on her soul, where the final threads of light wove through the fractures, mending them with deliberate care.

She watched him, noting the intense concentration etched into his expression.

Then a peculiar sensation drew her attention downward. Her gaze fell to his hands—pressed firmly against the center of her boobs, over her heart.

Anger flared first, hot and immediate. Her body stiffened, though she lacked the strength to push him away.

Then came shame, creeping in like an unwelcome shadow. Finally, a reluctant acceptance settled over her. She hated it but understood—this wasn't a violation; it was survival.

The boy exhaled deeply, his breath shaky, as though he'd been holding it for too long.

Slowly, he lifted his hands, the faint glow around them fading. He glanced at her prone figure, lying motionless on the bed, and gave a slight nod.

It was as if he needed the gesture to confirm his own success.

'She's stable now,' he murmured to himself, the words barely audible.

Standing, he leaned back against the bedframe with a heavy sigh, careful not to rest any weight on her legs.

His exhaustion was evident in the slump of his shoulders and the labored way he moved, like someone carrying the weight of an invisible burden.

"Hey, you fuck," she muttered weakly, her voice tinged with irritation as she tried to summon enough energy to scold him.

It wasn't just about his hands—it was the casual way he had flopped onto the bed. They weren't that close, alright.

The boy barely spared her a glance, brushing a hand through his unruly hair. A faint, amused smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his exhaustion giving way to an easy nonchalance.

"How about we talk over breakfast?" he said, ignoring her protest entirely. "I'm starving."

Surprised, she blinked at his casual tone, but a faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

She wasn't sure why, but she felt… happy.

Maybe it was the simple fact that, for the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn't alone.

Her voice was soft, almost tentative, as she replied, "Ok."

The boy stretched lazily, still perched on the edge of the bed, his arms reaching toward the ceiling in an exaggerated motion.

Then, with a practiced ease, he swung his legs off the bed and stood.

Without hesitation, he leaned down and scooped her into his arms, supporting her with effortless care.

Her strength was slowly returning, but it wasn't enough for her to stand—not yet.

That was why he carried her, his movements steady and deliberate, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"YELP!" The startled cry burst from her lips before she could stop it. She stiffened, her cheeks flushing as the sudden closeness caught her off guard.

Being held like this—especially by a boy—was entirely foreign to her.

"What are you doing?" she protested weakly, her voice faltering. Though the words escaped her lips, they carried little conviction. Her body was too drained to put up much of a fight.

"Relax, and take a deep breath," he said, ignoring her protest as he started walking toward the kitchen.

She frowned slightly at his audacity, but her exhaustion won out.

She decided not to argue, letting the moment unfold without resistance.

Besides, a part of her was curious—she wanted to see where this strange situation would lead.

Reluctantly, she followed his advice and took a deep breath.

"Woooof," she exhaled, the sound slipping out unexpectedly. For a moment, her eyes widened.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she felt the simple joy of drawing a full, satisfying breath.

It felt… good.

'I can breathe again,' she thought, her mind lingering on the sensation.

A quiet calm began to settle over her.

Though her body still felt drained, a faint spark of life flickered deep within—a small, stubborn ember promising strength yet to come.

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When she came to her senses, she found herself staring at pure chaos.

The kitchen looked like it had survived a small explosion.

A pot dangled precariously from the edge of a warped counter, several herbs hung crookedly from hooks on the wall, and a bag of flour had apparently given its life to whatever madness was about to unfold.

The girl sat slumped at the table, her chin resting on her palm, staring blankly at the boy across the room.

She looked like she had just finished a week-long battle with a chimera and lost. Her hair was a mess, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, and she didn't have the energy to complain—yet.

The boy, however, was on a mission. He stood at the stove, glaring at a pot of bubbling... something.

Steam wafted up like it was trying to escape before things got worse.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" the girl muttered, her voice hoarse.

"Of course I do," the boy shot back, though his tone betrayed him. He stirred the pot aggressively, causing whatever was inside to make a concerning glorp sound.

The girl raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "It smells like burnt socks."

"It's porridge!" he insisted. He grabbed a jar of something green and sprinkled a generous amount into the pot.

"What was that?" she asked, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and dread.

"Uh... seasoning?"

"Seasoning for what? An Ogre?"

The boy paused, staring at the pot. "It's supposed to add flavor."

The girl leaned back in her chair, groaning softly. "Just don't kill me. I'm too tired to haunt you."

He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as he grabbed a wooden spoon and took a hesitant taste of his creation.

His face immediately scrunched up like he'd just licked a troll's boot. "Okay, maybe not that much seasoning."

The girl snorted, the faintest trace of amusement flickering on her face. "This is why you should have told me you don't know how to cook."

"Hey, I'm trying to keep you alive here!" he shot back, dumping what he probably thought was sugar into the pot. The grains sparkled faintly, hinting that they might not be sugar at all.

"Alive? Or cursed?" she asked, eyeing the glowing pot now emitting a soft humming noise.

"It's fine," the boy said with false confidence, ladling the questionable porridge into a bowl.

He set it down in front of her with a flourish, as though he'd just served a royal feast. "There. Food."

The girl stared at the bowl. The porridge—or whatever it was—jiggled slightly, as though it had a mind of its own. It was an odd shade of green, with chunks of unidentifiable... things floating in it.

"You want me to eat this?" she asked flatly.

"Well, yeah," he said, crossing his arms. "It's good for you. Probably."

She poked the porridge with her spoon. It wobbled. She glanced up at him. "If I die, I'm haunting you."

"You already said that."

"I mean it this time."

"Just eat it!"

She sighed, took the tiniest bite, and immediately winced. "It tastes like regret."

The boy huffed, grabbing the spoon from her hand and taking a bite himself. His expression turned into a grimace almost instantly. "Okay, yeah, that's... that's bad."

"I told you."

"Well, at least I tried!"

The girl slumped back in her chair, exhausted again just from the ordeal. "Next time, just give me bread. Or water. Or nothing."

"Noted," the boy muttered, shoving the bowl of porridge away as if it might bite him.

The bowl, however, had other plans.

It slowly slid toward the sink as if possessed, the green sludge within oozing ominously.

What the fuck.

Ignore.

"You're going to ignore that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, her voice tinged with disbelief.

"Yep," he replied without hesitation.

The boy groaned, "Well, I tried," he muttered, slumping into the chair across from the girl.

"Tried? That's what you're calling this?" the girl asked, motioning weakly at the green sludge in the bowl that was in the sink somehow.

"Hey, it's not like you helped," he shot back, crossing his arms defensively.

She rolled her eyes. "I've been too busy trying not to collapse on the floor, thank you very much." She paused, glaring at the mess he'd made. "And I'm still starving."

He opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again, slumping further into his chair. "Yeah, well... I got nothing. You wanna eat, you figure it out."

The girl let out an exasperated sigh, sitting up straighter for the first time.

Her Pink hair stuck up in all directions, her eyes burned with the quiet fire of someone who was simply done with everything.

She took one long look at the enchanted kitchen, its glowing runes barely visible under the grime and chaos.

Then, in a voice far louder than the boy expected, she bellowed:

"KITCHEN! Rearrange yourself and make us something edible before I starve to death and haunt this house for eternity!"

The boy jumped in his seat, staring at her in shock. "What are you—"

But the kitchen responded immediately.

The runes on the walls flared to life, glowing a warm gold. The pots and pans rattled, the counters shifted themselves into order, and the stove gave an almost indignant puff of smoke before flaring to life.

The girl smirked at the boy, leaning back in her chair. "See? That's how you handle an enchanted kitchen."

He gaped at her as the room transformed around them.

Ingredients danced through the air with a cheerful hum, guided by unseen hands. Flour measured itself into bowls, eggs cracked open mid-air, and a pan slid onto the stove, sizzling as if eager to get to work.

A knife chopped vegetables into perfect cubes, while a kettle whistled merrily as it brewed a pot of steaming tea.

"I didn't know it could do that!" the boy said, his voice a mixture of awe and indignation.

"Clearly," she replied, watching as a stack of golden pancakes floated gracefully onto a plate.

In a matter of minutes, the table was set with a spread that would make a noble feast look humble: fluffy pancakes drizzled with honey, fresh fruit arranged in a rainbow, and a bowl of warm, creamy porridge that actually looked edible.

The girl grabbed a fork and dug in without hesitation. "This," she said between bites, "is how you make breakfast."

The boy hesitated, staring suspiciously at the food before finally grabbing a fork himself. He took a cautious bite of the porridge, his eyes widening. "This is... actually good!"

"No thanks to you," she quipped, smirking.

"Okay, but you didn't make it either," he pointed out.

"I gave the orders," she said with a shrug. "Leadership is a skill."

The kitchen gave a low, satisfied hum, as if to say, Finally, someone with sense.

T_T

(￣ー￣)

(凸ಠ益ಠ)凸

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he muttered under his breath, shoveling pancakes into his mouth.

She saw his antics but chose to ignore them, focusing on her meal instead.

The girl became too busy enjoying her meal with care.

After all, she'd earned this.

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