My Chef Husband Refused to Cook for Me but Fed My Student Chapter 08

My Chef Husband Refused to Cook for Me but Fed My Student Chapter 08

Renner walked right up to me.

He’d lost weight, and his shirt was all crumpled. He was nothing like the immaculate, put-together

head chef everyone knew. Instead, he looked just like that broke kid I’d first met ages ago.

He stood there, his lips parting like he’d memorized a whole speech, but couldn’t figure out where

to start.

“I-”

“The noodles were good,” I said first, my tone steady and blank. “Thank you.’

Renner froze, clearly caught off guard that I’d speak before him. He parted his lips, his voice rough

and worn.

“I never meant to… I forgot you’re deathly allergic to shellfish. Back then I just lost my head and

“Renner.” I cut him off.

He fell silent and fixed his eyes on me.

I pulled my phone out of my lab coat pocket and checked the time. I still had twenty minutes before

my afternoon ward rounds.

“What exactly did you come here to say?”

Renner took a deep breath, gathering every bit of courage he had.

“I’m here to apologize. I’m truly sorry.”

“It was all my fault that night. I had no right to call you greedy, no right to claim you were picking

fights with Liora, and I never should’ve fed you shrimp.”

“I shouldn’t’ve gone all these years without ever cooking a proper meal for you once.”

His eyes were red.

“I know apologies don’t fix the past, but I’ve finally realized how terribly I messed up.”

“That tray of noodles was made just for you. I cooked for the entire base staff and troops just to get

the chance to serve you.”

I held his gaze for several quiet seconds.

“Renner.”

“Has a single thought ever crossed your mind?”

He stayed quiet, waiting for me to continue.

“When you baked shortbread wedges för Liora, she complained they’d gone stale and didn’t taste. nearly as good. Do you know why?”

“She’d eaten them dozens of times before. She got to enjoy them fresh, straight from the oven while they were still steaming hot. That’s how she could tell they’d lost their flavor.”

Renner’s face paled inch by inch.

“And what about me?” I didn’t look away from him.

“We dated ten years and lived together for seven. The very first shortbread wedges of yours I ever

tasted was stale, handed off to me after she’d had her fill.”

“I didn’t even know you’d baked them at all until that day.”

“You cooked noodles for every person on this base just so I could have one single serving.”

A hollow little smile tugged at my mouth.

“But Renner, eating these noodles today feels exactly the same as biting into that stale shortbread wedges all those years ago.”

I looked straight at him, speaking each word slowly and clearly.

“Late love isn’t worth a thing.”

The hallway fell completely quiet. In the distance, the soldiers’ loud drill shouts echoed all over the

base.

Renner stood glued to the floor. His eyes burned bright red, his lips shaking nonstop. He hung his

head, overcome with shame.

I walked right past him. Just like that night long ago, when he carried Liora in his arms and brushed

past me without a second glance.

For days afterward, the mess hall kept rolling out all my favorite meals. But I never stepped foot in

there again.

My stomach started aching out of nowhere.

At first it was random twinges I could power through. Soon it turned into a constant dull throb, like someone had a fist wrapped tight around my insides, squeezing harder and harder.

One afternoon I wrapped up a six-hour surgery. Halfway back to my office, my vision went

completely black.

I had no idea how long I’d been out.

Through fuzzy blurred sight, I felt someone lift me up gently. They held me like I was a priceless

treasure they’d thought they’d lost forever.

They laid me down on a cot. Someone twisted the cap off a pill bottle. A glass of warm water pressed lightly against my lips and tilted up slow.

“Open your mouth.”

The voice was soft, like they were terrified of waking me.

When I woke up the next morning, I sat up slowly and noticed a men’s black jacket draped over me. A cup of warm water sat on the nightstand, and a crumpled slip of paper sat underneath it.

I picked up the note. The handwriting was shaky and messy, like whoever wrote it couldn’t steady

their hands.

It read: I’m sorry.

A nurse pushed open the door holding a food tray.

“Doc Veyra, you can’t skip meals even with back-to-back surgeries!”

“Bad news though-our famous chef left early this morning. You’re stuck with regular mess hall

grub now.”

I tossed the note straight in the trash and took the tray from her.

“Plain everyday food might just be better anyway.”

I lifted the tray cover. It was tomato egg scramble, slick with too much oil, the eggs tough and

overcooked.

Even so, I finished every single bite.