Kakavasha sat rigid at the edge of the chair, his eyes tracing the lines of the floor beneath him. The soft aroma of food filled the air, but he barely noticed. His mind was swirling, trying to make sense of the silence, of the stillness that surrounded him. It wasn’t like before—there was no immediate demand, no expectation of his body being used or his spirit being crushed.

But that’s what confused him.

He glanced toward the kitchen, watching you as you worked, your back turned to him. You moved around with a calm, casual grace, humming softly under your breath as though nothing in the world was out of place. For you, this might have been normal. For him, it was anything but.

His hands tightened in his lap, and he couldn’t help it anymore. The question burned in his throat, pressing against the walls of his mind. Why hadn’t you done anything? Why was he just… sitting here?

"Why did you rent me," Kakavasha asked suddenly, his voice rough and uncertain, "if you’re not gonna do anything with me?"

His words hung heavy in the air, like a stone dropped into still water. He regretted asking almost immediately, afraid of what your answer might be. His body tensed, bracing for the shift in your demeanor, the sudden demand, the cruelty he had come to expect.

You stopped stirring the pot, your back still to him. There was a pause, long enough for Kakavasha’s heartbeat to echo loudly in his ears. He waited for the inevitable—the order, the reprimand. Instead, you sighed, a soft sound, and turned slightly to glance over your shoulder at him.

He blinked, staring at you in disbelief. The words didn’t compute. No one had rented him just for him to do nothing before. His entire existence, for as long as he could remember, had been about being used—about serving a purpose. So what was this?

"You don’t… want anything from me?" he repeated, as if testing the words on his tongue, like they were a foreign concept.