The silence stretched between them as Kairo and Kieran sat across from each other. Kairo was acutely aware of the warmth that had begun to settle between them, despite their contrasting personalities. The air had shifted since their first glance, an unspoken connection hanging heavy like the taste of something bittersweet lingering on the tip of his tongue.
After a long moment of silent studying, Kieran broke the stillness, his voice cool yet not unfriendly.
"Food, huh?" he murmured, his gaze unwavering. "It seems like a strange thing to build an entire life around."
Kairo blinked, caught off guard by the directness of the statement. He hadn't expected this—this matter-of-fact disinterest, as if food was something beneath Kieran's notice. It made him want to explain, to somehow convey the depth of what food meant to him, but instead, he found himself staring at Kieran's eyes, searching for something to bridge the gap between them.
"Food isn't just about eating, Kieran," Kairo began softly, his voice unexpectedly vulnerable. "It's the story of a person, a place, a time. Every dish carries a memory—a history behind it that you can't understand just by tasting."
Kieran's brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't interrupt. Kairo took that as an invitation to continue, the words spilling out before he could stop them.
"Food," Kairo said, leaning forward, his voice growing more passionate, "it's the only art that connects people so directly. When you sit down for a meal, you're sharing something. A plate, yes, but also time. Emotion. You can taste the care someone puts into a dish, the hours spent preparing it, the love woven into every ingredient."
Kairo paused, feeling a bit self-conscious. He had never been this open about it with anyone, but something about Kieran's presence made him feel... seen, in a way that was rare for him.
"I can't taste food the way you do," Kairo continued, his voice lowering, almost wistful. "I've never been able to. My senses don't work like everyone else's. But I can feel the story behind it. I can see the way it's made, the way it's plated. I understand the love and effort that goes into it, even if I can't taste it."
Kieran was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Kairo fidgeted with his glass, suddenly feeling exposed, wondering if he had said too much. It was something he rarely admitted, the vulnerability of not being able to experience something so central to his life the way others could. But this wasn't just some anonymous audience—this was Kieran, the man who had held his gaze across a crowded restaurant, who had drawn him in with a look, a challenge.
"I've never met anyone like you," Kieran said slowly, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he regarded Kairo. "Most people, they just... they eat. They consume. But you, you're something else."
Kairo chuckled softly, a little embarrassed. "I'm a fraud," he admitted. "Everyone thinks I have this sophisticated palate, this deep understanding of flavors. But in reality, I'm just good at telling stories. I describe food the way I imagine it must taste. The way it should taste."
Kieran's lips twitched slightly, though it was more of a grimace than a smile. "You've built an entire career around something you can't even experience?"
Kairo nodded, the weight of his words sinking in. "I've learned to find meaning in it, even if I can't enjoy it the way others do. Food is... it's more than just taste. It's connection. It's memory. It's what brings people together."
There was a brief silence, and Kieran's gaze softened, his usual coldness giving way to something more thoughtful, though still guarded. "It's strange," he muttered, more to himself than Kairo, "to think that someone could find so much meaning in something... so simple. Something I could never give a damn about."
Kairo smiled, a little rueful. "That's the beauty of it. Food isn't simple. It's complicated. You just have to understand the way it speaks."
A long pause hung between them, and Kieran's eyes flickered, as if weighing something heavy. For the first time, Kairo noticed the subtle lines of exhaustion around Kieran's eyes, the way he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. There was more to him than the cold, aloof exterior—he was a man carrying invisible burdens, just like everyone else.
Finally, Kieran looked at him, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. "You're a weird guy, Kairo."
Kairo laughed, the tension easing between them. "I get that a lot."
Kieran leaned back in his chair, his arms folding across his chest as he observed Kairo. "So, you spend your life trying to describe something you can't experience... and somehow, you make it sound like poetry."
Kairo's heart skipped a beat. "I wouldn't go that far," he said, his cheeks flushing a little. "But it's what I do. It's what I've always done."
There was another beat of silence before Kieran spoke again, his voice quieter now, almost... soft. "Maybe I've underestimated you. I didn't think much of food or critics before, but you... you make it sound important."
Kairo felt a warmth spread through him at the unexpected compliment, his chest tightening in a way he couldn't explain. "Thank you," he murmured, looking down at his plate, feeling the weight of Kieran's words more than he cared to admit.
As the waiter came by to clear their dishes, Kairo glanced up again, meeting Kieran's eyes once more. This time, the coldness had receded completely. There was no judgment, no disdain—just a quiet understanding.
"Maybe I'll try to taste food the way you do," Kieran said, his voice low, but there was a faint spark of curiosity behind his words. "Maybe I'll try to see the story behind it, too."
Kairo's heart skipped, the idea of Kieran trying to understand the deeper meaning behind food, behind Kairo's world, filling him with something unfamiliar, something like hope.
For the first time in a long while, Kairo felt that maybe... just maybe, he wasn't so alone in this after all.