Craving: A Kylo Ren Tale

Nine

Doing my best to ignore the odd sexual tension in the air, I throw myself into dinner prep. It's a bitter cold evening in the city, so a hearty and warm meal sounds comforting. I settle on Indian, hoping the man enjoys spice.

I knead bread dough and leave it to rest while boiling rice and preparing the chicken.

The chunks get sautéed until browned, and then set aside while I work on the aromatics. Onion, garlic, ginger, hot pepper, garam masala, cumin, turmeric, and coriander create a magical smell throughout the kitchen as they heat in the pan. And I'm sure it's pungent enough to waft through the entire apartment.

The chicken gets thrown back in along with tomatoes, yogurt, and water, and I leave the curry to simmer so that all of the flavors can come together.

Turning my attention back to the dough, I roll it into oblong teardrop shapes while garlic gets cooked in ghee. I throw the dough into the infused liquid to fry.

When everything is done, saffron rice, murgh kari curry, and garlic naan steam from their respective platters and bowls. The perfect meal for a bitter winter night.

But Kylo is nowhere to be seen.

Fuck it. I throw all caution to the wind, and make my way down the corridor with all of the closed doors. He's got to be in one of these rooms, and I'll be damned if he ignores another good meal. I haven't seen the man eat one piece of food since I've been here. Coffee and liquor definitely don't count.

"Mr. Ren?" My voice echoes down the eastern hallway.

No response, but I expected as much.

I lightly knock on the studio closest to the master bedroom, and hear silence from the other side. I make my way past the home gym and try the next room, no response. Finally on the third door, I hear movement after I lightly tap.

"I thought I was clear, do not disturb me while I work." His voice is stern and laced with real anger this time.

I know I should slowly back away and drop the subject but I'm pretty sick of this treatment and it's only day two.

"Your dinner is ready. I made Indian?" I try to sound as pleasant as possible even though he pisses me off with this condescending attitude.

"I don't like Indian." He's dismissive, as always. And I'm sure he wants me to take this as a cue to leave him alone, but I'm done being dismissed.

"I didn't add any fresh cilantro, promise." Still trying my best to sound pleasant.

There's a silence, and I assume this is him trying to ignore me out of existence. I'm about to turn back to the kitchen in defeat, but then I hear footsteps approaching. I back up quickly, to the opposite wall, before he snaps the door open. He glares down at me.

"Leave it warm, I'm not ready to eat. And next time, just send me a text instead of banging on every door in the god damn house." He slams the door shut again.

Okay. That could have gone worse. I'm still slightly trembling from the door slam, but that could have been a lot worse. And from the sounds of it, he'll actually eat what I made this time? Small victories all around.

Before he shut me out, I caught a quick glimpse of a painting studio.

Stacks of canvases were piled against walls, huge windows overlooking the city, a large easel was in the middle of the room on top of a drop cloth, a cart of paints and supplies nearby. I couldn't clearly see what he was painting, but it was an abstract that had sensual curves and dark blood red hues. Sexy and terrifying, just like him.