Chapter 5 5

Kingsley was discharged from the hospital two days later

He didn't say much during his stay. The doctors asked questions, and he gave short answers. Nurses poked and prodded, monitored vitals, and adjusted IV fluids. Through it all, Kingsley said very little. But every time Katherine visited-twice a day, without fail-his eyes would soften like the tight coil of pain in his chest loosened a little.

It was her presence that grounded him. Not the medicine, not the sterile sheets, not the therapist that popped in briefly. Just her.

When he was discharged, he didn't return to his towering penthouse, Instead, he requested to be dropped off at a quiet, inconspicuous street on the edge of the city.

That's where he wanted to be.

A small, two-bedroom apartment tucked between a florist and a closed-down laundromat. It had peeling gray paint, creaky floorboards, and a door that stuck when you tried to close it all the way.

To anyone else, it was just another forgotten space on a forgotten block.

But to Kingsley, it was perfect.

"This is my home," he said quietly when Katherine stepped inside for the first time.

She had paused at the door, carrying a brown paper bag of groceries and her dog Cap trotting beside her. "Home?"

He nodded once. "I know it's not much, but I just got it new, so I am still making it feel like home little by little."

And so it began-his quiet recovery.

The first few days were hard.

The apartment was mostly empty except for a couch Kingsley bought off a secondhand app, a mattress lying directly on the bedroom floor, and a single table in the kitchen with two mismatched chairs. No art on the walls. No television. No Wi-Fi. Just space and silence.

But Katherine filled in the gaps he left behind.

She came over every morning with something warm in her hands-rice and stew, grilled chicken, homemade soup, or pancakes. She stocked his tiny fridge with essentials and even bought him extra towels and a set of soft white sheets.

Cap her dog had his own spot now, curled up near the couch, always watching Kingsley with curious brown eyes.

Katherine never hovered, but she never stayed too far either.

She swept the floors, cleaned the bathroom, and aired out the space. She brought candles that smelled like fresh rain and lavender and placed one beside his bed, and another on the windowsill.

Some nights, she didn't go home. She'd fall asleep on the couch with Cap at her feet, and when Kingsley woke in the middle of the night, sweaty and breathless from dreams he couldn't remember, he'd glance over and find peace in the rhythm of her breathing.

He still didn't talk much.

Not about the past. Not about who he was. But he was healing, slowly.

Sometimes, he'd sit at the kitchen table and watch her clean without saying a word. Just sitting there, eyes fixed on her like she was a flame in a world gone dark.

And always, always, when she caught his gaze and asked, "What?" with a small laugh, his answer never changed.

"Your eyes," he would murmur. "They're beautiful."

At first, she blushed and looked away.

But she had started to notice it wasn't really about her beauty. It wasn't flirty or charming. No, it was something deeper. Something distant. Like he was looking through her-like her eyes held a memory that didn't belong to her. She didn't know what to make of that.

Sometimes she'd catch him completely lost in thought, just gazing at her across the room. There was something sacred about the way he looked at her. Not lustful. Not romantic. Just... reverent.

She didn't ask questions. She had come to accept that Kingsley had a past, and some parts of it were buried so deep, even he didn't have the strength to dig them up yet.

It was on the fifth day after he left the hospital that he began walking around the neighborhood.

Not far. Just a few blocks.

Katherine offered to go with him, but he preferred to walk alone. He said he needed to feel the world again. The wind. The pavement under his feet. To remember that he was still alive.

And every time he came back, he brought something with him-a small plant he'd found at a street corner stand. A loaf of bread. A used book with the spine nearly broken.

He was rebuilding. Quietly. Carefully.

The apartment started to shift, little by little.

A rug here. A painting of a mountain trail. A radio that played low jazz when the sun went down. Katherine helped him hang new curtains. She helped him fix the faulty light in the hallway.

The place began to breathe with life.