Ch. 42 – Good Luck With the Soup

The sight of Durin standing in the entryway hit Rhys like a physical blow, knocking the remaining air straight out of his lungs.

Rhys remembered Durin very well. He was a master craftsman, a quiet, grounded dwarf with a broad chest, a neatly braided dark beard, and a soft-spoken demeanor that commanded a quiet, unpretentious respect. In the few years since Rhys and Lira had settled into this pristine suburban neighborhood, Durin and Rhea had come over for weekend barbecues, casual holiday drinks, and neighborhood potlucks. Durin was always the type to quietly tend to the grill, offer a genuine, warm smile, and speak with profound, tender affection about his statuesque Earth Genasi wife.

The times before I started ‘catering’ to her, Rhys thought bitterly, his stomach turning a violent, sickening loop.

A profound, suffocating guilt gripped Rhys’s chest as he looked at the honest, working-class dwarf. Durin was a good man. A calm, loving, utterly devoted husband. Rhys had genuinely respected him—which made the vivid, intrusive memories currently flashing through Rhys’s mind feel like absolute torture. Sudden, visceral images flooded his thoughts: Rhea lifted in mid-air on the cold marble floor of a public stall; Rhea pinned against the wall, breathless and frantic; Rhea gasping against his neck, whimpering that her husband had never done this to her.

Rhys felt a cold sweat break out along the nape of his neck. He forced his hands deep into his sweatpants pockets to hide how badly they were trembling.

Durin stepped fully into the living room, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. He held his worn leather cap in his large, calloused hands, wringing the material nervously. He offered a polite, shy nod toward Marcus and Lira, attempting to engage in a few minutes of polite, superficial small talk about the recent sunny weather and neighborhood news.

Yet, beneath his polite exterior, it quickly became glaringly obvious that Durin hadn’t just popped over to check on his neighbors. There was a deep, anxious crease between his heavy brows, and his earthy brown eyes kept darting toward Rhys with a mix of desperation and sheer embarrassment.

Rhys braced himself mentally. Whatever this is, it can’t be that bad, he tried to reassure himself frantically. The absolute worst-case scenario would have been Rhea herself showing up at my front door with that unhinged, golden glow in her eyes. Durin being here just means it’s a normal neighborly errand.

Finally, Durin cleared his throat, clearing away the awkward pleasantries to reluctantly relay the real, deeply embarrassing reason for his sudden visit.

“The truth is...” Durin began, his rumbling voice dropping an octave as he stared down at his boots, “my poor Rhea... she’s been terribly under the weather these past couple of days. Ever since she came back from that night out in the city. She’s just been... bedridden. Confined to the master bedroom, completely spent, barely able to move, her whole face flushed red and her spirit completely in a daze.”

Lira’s face immediately softened with deep, sisterly empathy. She took a step forward, placing a hand over her heart. “Oh no! Poor Rhea! Durin, I am so sorry to hear that. I hope she feels better soon! Is there anything we can do?”

Marcus leaned back on the plush couch, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Man, that sucks. Have you thought about calling a doctor? Or maybe an elemental specialist? Genasi physiology can be tricky when they get sick.”

Rhys said absolutely nothing. His breath was stuck firmly in his throat. He knew—with a dark, sickening certainty—that there was far more to this “illness” than a simple seasonal flu or magical fever. Rhea wasn’t sick. Her body was experiencing the catastrophic physical aftermath of a hyper-intense, multi-climax spree on cold tile, compounded by the raw, chaotic strain of Rhys’s relentless assault on her senses.

Durin raised his head, his wide, troubled brown eyes slowly shifting away from Lira and locking directly onto Rhys.

“I tried to get a doctor,” Durin admitted, his voice tight with embarrassment. “I offered to make her herbal teas, broth, anything. But... Rhea made an odd demand. She was absolutely adamant about it. She refused to eat anything unless it was a very specific, rich home-cooked soup... and most of all, she insisted that it must be made by Rhys.”

The entire room seemed to flip completely upside down.

A heavy, suffocating silence slammed into the living room like a dropped anvil. The cheerful domestic air instantly vanished, replaced by an agonizingly awkward tension.

Rhys stood entirely paralyzed, his brain short-circuiting as Durin’s words echoed in his skull. She didn’t... she wouldn’t...

Surprisingly, it was Lira who broke the dead silence first.

“Oh!” Lira exclaimed, a bright, sudden beam breaking across her face as she clapped her hands together softly. “That makes total sense!”

Rhys’s head snapped toward his wife in sheer, unadulterated disbelief. It DOES?! his mind screamed. How on earth does that make sense to you?!

Marcus frowned, voicing Rhys’s exact internal panic aloud with a bewildered, goofy squint. “It does?”

“Of course it does!” Lira insisted proudly, stepping up beside Rhys and wrapping her arm lovingly around his elbow, resting her head against his shoulder. “Rhys’s cooking is becoming wildly popular around the neighborhood—Ariadne was literally just here an hour ago trying to place a custom catering order with him! And Rhea is a sweet, dear friend who comes over to visit all the time. She must have gotten a sudden craving for that incredible, rich soup Rhys made for our dinner party a few months ago. When you’re sick, you crave comfort food from people you trust!”

Rhys swallowed down a lump of pure, razor-sharp panic, forced his jaw to unlock, and offered a hollow, terrifyingly flat response. “Yeah... yeah, I guess so.”

Marcus, ever the curious, oblivious friend, leaned forward on the armchair, looking between Rhys and Durin. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense, man! What soup is it? What kind of crazy recipe did you make that has the neighbors practically begging on their knees for it?”

I don’t fucking know! Rhys roared silently in total exasperation, his mind racing at a hundred miles an hour. She doesn’t want soup! She wants to trap me in her house while her husband is sitting in the living room!

Maintaining his absolute composure under extreme pressure—a skill forged over years of black-ops vigilante work—Rhys kept his cool. He let out a light, forced chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “Honestly, Marcus, I’ve experimented with so many different broth and soup recipes by now, I’m not even sure which one she’s talking about.” Smoothly, Rhys passed the burning-hot question right back to the anxious dwarf. “Durin... did she mention the specific name or ingredients?”

Durin instantly grew visibly more nervous. A dark red flush crept up the dwarf’s neck, disappearing into his thick beard as he wrung his cap even tighter.

“N-No,” Durin stammered out, looking deeply embarrassed. “She... she couldn’t say. She wouldn’t tell me a single ingredient. She just laid there in bed, gripping the sheets, looking up at me with this wild, feverish look in her eyes, and told me to come over here, grab you, and bring you straight to our house. She said... she said you’d know exactly what she needs once you’re there, and that we have everything you’ll need in our kitchen.”

Rhys was utterly at a loss for words. Speechless horror seized him. He couldn’t believe the absolute, unhinged audacity of the woman. Rhea had literally sent her own, completely oblivious, loving husband across the street as an unwitting courier to fetch her lover under the pathetic guise of making “soup.”

Every single hero instinct in Rhys screamed at him to put an absolute, immediate end to this insanity. He opened his mouth, fixing his lips to say a hard, uncompromising, definitive (hell) no.

“I’m sorry, Durin, but today really isn’t—”

“Oh, it won’t be a problem at all!” Lira cut in cheerfully before Rhys could finish his sentence.

Rhys froze, staring at his wife in sheer, breathless horror as she spoke right over him.

Lira looked up at Rhys with an expression of pure, unadulterated pride and adoration, her bright blue eyes glowing with complete trust. “Rhys loves to help those in need, Durin! He’s always been the most generous, self-sacrificing man I’ve ever known. Go ahead, sweetie. Go help poor Rhea get back on her feet!”

Rhys felt like he was suffocating. He couldn’t believe his own wife—the woman he was desperately trying to protect from this dark, corrupting nightmare—was the very person signing him off and handing him over to his former lover on a silver platter.

Desperate to escape the trap, Rhys turned to face Lira directly. He grabbed both of her delicate hands in his, looking deep into her eyes, trying with every ounce of spiritual and mental energy he possessed to send a clear, silent plea for help.

“Lira...” Rhys asked, his voice low, intense, and trembling with suppressed panic. “Are you... are you sure? Today is your one, rare day off. We were supposed to spend every second of it together. I don’t want to leave you here on your own day off.”

Lira offered a soft, deeply tender smile. She reached up, gently cupping his cheek with her warm palm, her thumb caressing his cheekbone.

“Rhys, after all the countless times I’ve had to suddenly drop everything and leave you alone at home because the League called me for a galactic emergency...” Lira whispered softly, her eyes brimming with profound love, “...I can handle waiting a few hours for my amazing husband to go across the street and help a sick friend. You’re a good man, Rhys. Never change.”

A sharp, unnamable pang of agonizing emotion sliced straight through Rhys’s heart. It was a brutal mix of profound, soul-crushing love and sickening, irredeemable self-loathing. His wife had absolute, blind faith in his morality. She had no idea what the true, horrific reality of the situation was—yet he couldn’t bring himself to shatter the pure, loving look she was giving him right now. To refuse now, under her watchful, proud eyes, would raise suspicions he couldn’t afford.

Rhys lowered his head, letting out a long, slow, defeated exhale. His shoulders slumped.

“Fine,” Rhys murmured softly, accepting his grim fate.

He turned toward Marcus, offering his best friend a stiff, awkward nod. “I’ll catch up with you later, Marcus.”

“Take care of business, chef!” Marcus grinned, giving him a thumbs-up.

Rhys turned back to Lira, pulling her close into his arms. He wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face in the crook of her neck for a lingering, desperate second, inhaling her clean, comforting scent like a drowning man clinging to a life raft. He leaned back and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her lips.

“I’ll be back soon,” Rhys said softly, the words feeling more like a desperate, hopeful prayer than a promise. “I love you.”

“I love you too, hero,” Lira smiled warmly, waving as he stepped toward the door. “Good luck with the soup!”

Rhys stepped out onto the porch alongside Durin. The bright morning sun felt blinding, hot, and unforgiving against his skin. He walked side-by-side with the quiet dwarf, stepping off his manicured lawn and crossing the asphalt street toward the charming, earth-toned house directly across from his own.

Every single step felt heavy, leaden, and agonizingly slow. With every footfall, Rhys felt like a condemned prisoner marching down a cold stone corridor, slowly walking himself straight up to the gallows.