The morning sun streamed gently through the worn but spotless curtains of the rebuilt orphanage. The once-charred walls now stood proudly, painted in warm hues that invited peace. Downstairs, the children's laughter echoed faintly—but upstairs, Nora stirred from a dreamless sleep.
She sat up slowly, eyes flickering open with a yawn. Her body still ached from everything—the trauma, the long nights, the unspoken emotions—but the work kept her grounded. She quietly slipped into her maid uniform, careful not to make a sound. She knew Zayan wouldn't want her working—not today, not when he'd told her to rest—but she couldn't just lie around. Not when there was so much to do.
With practiced silence, she crept out of the room and got to work. Dusting, folding, cleaning the floors. She was nearly done by the time the first signs of life stirred downstairs.
Outside, Zayan stood near the gate, watching the kids play under the afternoon sun. Asher stood beside him, no longer the frightened little boy Zayan had first met, but a determined soul with fire in his eyes. The boy looked up at him, pride swelling in his chest.
"Thank you… so very much," Asher said, voice trembling slightly. "For rebuilding this place. I promise to protect it now. This is our home, and I'll look after it."
Zayan raised a brow, amused. "You're a kid, Ash. How are you going to protect anything? I've got that covered."
But Asher didn't flinch. Instead, he pulled a small, fully loaded handgun from his side pocket. Zayan's eyes widened.
"I ain't no kid no more," Asher said solemnly.
Zayan let out a low whistle, a smile tugging at his lips. "Do you even know how to use that?"
"Observe," Asher replied, raising the gun in one smooth motion. He aimed at a bird sitting on a distant fence. One clean shot—it fell. His stance, his aim… flawless.
Zayan blinked. "Damn," he muttered. "Alright, little soldier. But be careful with that thing. My men will also be stationed here from now on."
Asher nodded. "Nora's turning nineteen tomorrow," he added. "We're celebrating here, yeah?"
Zayan's expression softened. "Yeah… of course we are."
"She loves cinnamon rolls," Asher added.
Zayan chuckled. "Alright, you do the cake. I'll do the cinnamon rolls."
Asher grinned. "Nana had a recipe for them. I think it's still in the old bookshelf. Hold on!"
He sprinted into the orphanage. After a few minutes of loud rummaging and muttering, he emerged triumphant, a faded recipe book in his hands. "Here. Good luck. Just don't burn down the kitchen, alright?"
Zayan took it with a smirk. "Jokes on you—I once burned down a mansion just trying to make toast."
Asher laughed. "I believe that!"
As evening descended, Zayan made his way toward the kitchen, the recipe book in hand. The warm, golden glow of the setting sun slanted through the windows. He pushed the kitchen door open, only to freeze.
Nora was there.
She didn't notice him at first. She was scrubbing the last bit of the counter, her movements slow, her body sagging with fatigue. Her hair was tied up messily, strands sticking to her damp forehead. The room was spotless—she'd done everything.
"Nora?" he called gently.
She turned, startled—but her face relaxed when she saw him. Her lips parted to say something, but her knees buckled.
Zayan caught her just in time. She sagged against his chest, her body warm and trembling with exhaustion. Without a word, she hugged him tightly.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.
"I told you not to work," he murmured into her hair.
But she didn't respond—she had already fallen asleep in his arms.
With a soft smile, he carried her upstairs. In the soft candlelight of her room, he carefully changed her into something comfortable, then laid her down gently on the bed. He brushed a few strands of hair away from her face and pressed a light kiss to her cheek.
"Happy almost birthday, little storm," he whispered.
Then, quietly, he pulled the blanket over her and left.
Back in the kitchen, he tied an apron around his waist and looked at the book Asher had given him. The recipe was handwritten in fading ink, little notes and hearts scribbled in the margins.
"Alright," he said to no one in particular. "Let's get to work, shall we?"
The oven creaked as it came to life.
Flour dusted the air like snow.
And the Devil himself… started baking cinnamon rolls.