Page 45 of Run Omega Run
Ibalanced the bag against my hip as I climbed the newly rebuilt front steps, my marshmallow scent mixing with the lingering smell of fresh lumber and morning air. The solid wood beneath my feet felt satisfying after yesterday's repairs. There was no more dangerous tilting or creaking protests that had made every approach to the orphanage feel precarious.
Six grocery bags spoke to the scope of what I had planned. Quality ingredients filled each one: fresh vegetables that still carried soil from the market, herbs that would transform simple dishes into something memorable, proteins that would provide the nutrition these children had been missing. My restaurant's morning prep could wait; the staff could handle it; this kitchen called to me with possibilities that felt more important than profit margins.
Before I could knock, the door swung open to reveal Tomas, his thin face lighting up with recognition. The boy, who barely spoke above a whisper, looked up at me with eyes that held genuine welcome, and something warm settled in my chest at the sight.
"Morning, lad," I said, crouching down to his eye level. "Think your kitchen's ready for some proper cooking?"
Tomas nodded enthusiastically, then turned and called into the house with more volume than I'd heard from him before. "Dante's here! With bags!"
The response was immediate and overwhelming. Feet thundered against the floorboards as all the children converged on the entryway, their faces bright with curiosity and barely contained excitement. Loubie Lou clutched her rabbit while bouncing on her toes, trying to peer into the grocery bags.
"What's in them?" Dylan asked, his voice still carrying a slight rasp from the cold Cole had been treating.
"Ingredients," I replied, straightening and heading toward the kitchen with my entourage following like eager ducklings. "For the kind of meal that makes everything else seem possible."
The kitchen looked transformed from yesterday's chaos. Morning light streamed through windows that no longer leaked, highlighting the new coffeemaker, which sat proudly on the counter beside a collection of tools I'd brought from the restaurant—proper knives, measuring equipment, mixing bowls that would make precision possible.
I began unpacking bags onto the counter, watching the children's eyes grow wider with each item that emerged. Fresh tomatoes that smelled like summer, onions with crackled skin, and carrots that were still bathed in dirt from my garden at home.
"Quality ingredients make quality meals," I explained to the children, setting out wheels of cheese that would transform simple pasta into something worth remembering. "And everyone deserves to eat food that nourishes both body and soul."
Denson approached the counter with his careful precision, studying the arrangement of ingredients. "What are we making?" he asked quietly.
I grinned, feeling the familiar excitement that came with planning a meal that would challenge skills while creating joy. "We're making magic," I announced, pulling on the apron I'd brought from the restaurant. "But magic requires assistants, and every assistant needs a job."
The children pressed closer, their faces turned upward with anticipation that made my chest tighten with affection I hadn't expected to feel so quickly. These weren't just hungry children waiting to be fed; they were potential sous chefs, eager to learn and contribute to something larger than themselves.
"Loubie Lou," I said, pointing to the smallest member of our crew, "you're in charge of stirring. Nothing burns on your watch." Her face lit up with responsibility as I handed her a wooden spoon worn smooth from years of use. "Manny, you're measuring. Precision is your specialty." The boy straightened with pride, cradling his truck in one arm while accepting measuring cups with the other.
"Dylan, you're washing vegetables. Make them sparkle." The task was perfect for his recovering health. It was important but not strenuous. "Denson, you're arranging ingredients. Organization is an art, and artists need proper tools." I handed him a set of small bowls that would hold prepared ingredients until they were needed.
Tomas hung back slightly, uncertainty flickering across his features despite his earlier enthusiasm. I crouched down again, meeting his eyes. "Tomas, you're my taster," I said, watching his face transform with understanding. "The most important job in any kitchen. Nothing leaves this counter without your approval." His smile was radiant, transforming his entire posture from hesitant to relaxed.
But one person remained outside our growing operation. Heather stood in the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed across her chest. Her strawberry-and-cream scent carried notes oftension that hadn't been there during our earlier interactions, as if the scope of what I was offering had triggered defenses I hadn't anticipated.
"Everyone helps in my kitchen," I said, looking directly at her while wiping my hands on the apron. My voice carried the gentle firmness I'd learned from years of managing restaurant staff who needed encouragement rather than demands.
Her brown eyes met mine across the bustling kitchen, and I could see the internal struggle playing out behind them. Independence warring with exhaustion, pride wrestling with the simple human need to be cared for.
I moved toward her with deliberate slowness, not wanting to trigger flight responses that had kept her safe through months of crisis management. My marshmallow scent reached her first, and I watched something in her posture shift subtly, shoulders releasing tension she might not have realized she was carrying.
"I’m not a good cook," she admitted quietly, “But, I can bake!” Her voice pitched low enough that the children wouldn't hear the vulnerability in the admission. "I heat things up, throw ingredients together. I've never actually made anything that required... skill."
"Then it's time to learn," I replied, extending my hand toward her with the same patience I'd shown Tomas. "Cooking isn't about perfection. It's about nourishment, care, and the act of creating something that brings people together."
She looked at my outstretched hand for a long moment, and I could practically see the war between self-reliance and trust playing out in her expression. Around us, the children continued their preparations with the focused excitement of people who understood they were part of something special.
Finally, slowly, she uncrossed her arms and placed her hand in mine.
Her hand was warm, and rough from months of manual labor but also as delicate as her kissable lips. I pulled her towards me, breathing in her intoxicating scent, letting it glide over me, consume me. She was everything I needed and so much more!
"We'll start simple," I said, positioning Heather beside the stove where aromatics were already beginning to work their magic in olive oil that gleamed like liquid gold. "Onions first. They're forgiving, and they'll tell you what they need by the sounds they make."
I handed her the wooden spoon, letting my fingers brush against hers longer than necessary. Her strawberry scent was stronger here in the kitchen's warmth, mixing with the developing layers of our meal in ways that made the air itself feel edible. She held the spoon like it might bite her, but when I covered her hand with mine to guide the first few stirs, some of the tension in her shoulders eased.
"Listen," I murmured, close enough to her ear that my marshmallow scent would cover her with a gentle embrace. "Hear how they sizzle without popping? That's the perfect temperature. Too hot and they'll scream, too cool and they'll just lie there looking sad."
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, the first genuine relaxation I'd seen from her since arriving. "They do sound different than when I cook," she admitted, settling into the rhythm I'd shown her.
