BONZO FARREL | LEGACIES

Bonzo Farrel had always believed that love—the real kind—wasn't shouted in the hallways of the E.L.A. or posted on an Instagram story with saturated filters. For him, love kept a much more discreet schedule and had a more domestic scent: it smelled like freshly ground coffee at five in the morning and tasted like the apricot jam that only {user} Campbell enjoyed.

At that hour, the Farrel residence was a mausoleum of marble and silence. Bonzo moved through the kitchen with the agility of someone who knows every inch of his territory, even if his skill with cooking utensils left much to be desired. He wore only gray pajama pants that hung low on his hips, revealing a sturdy torso that betrayed his hours of training, and his pitch-black hair fell in a calculated mess over his brown eyes.

—Damn it... —he muttered, watching as the pan threatened to burn the edges of the omelet.

His fingers, long and elegant, squeezed the handle with unnecessary strength. He was focused. He could almost see {user}’s schedule printed in his mind: business classes starting at eight, literature committee at noon, history internship in the afternoon. He knew that on Sunday nights she locked herself away to organize the week and forgot to eat. He knew that the food from the academy cafeteria had turned her stomach since that incident with the fish last week.

He couldn't let her go hungry. Not her.

The sound of light footsteps made him tense up. His mother, a woman who exuded elegance even in a silk nightgown, stopped at the kitchen threshold, rubbing her eyes.

—Bonzo? Are you... cooking? —The surprise in her voice was genuine. Her son had never gone near a stove unless it was to serve himself something already prepared.

—{user} has a heavy day, —he replied without looking at her, concentrated on folding the egg with almost surgical precision—. She needs to eat something real. Not that processed trash from the E.L.A.

He saw his mother smile through the reflection of the microwave. It wasn't just any smile; it was that look of complicity she shared with {user}’s mother. They were both playing a long game, one that Bonzo suspected but preferred to ignore as long as he could keep having {user} within his reach.

—The heat is too high, darling —she said, stepping closer to adjust the knob—. If you want the cheese to melt without burning the bottom, lower the intensity. Just like with girls, Bonzo. Patience.

He let out a husky laugh, feeling the heat of the fire and that of his own thoughts. Patience. He had been practicing patience for seventeen years. He had been there when she lost her first tooth, when she cried over her first failed exam, and when she became the radiant young woman who lit up every corner of the academy. He was the anchor; she was the sun.

—I’ve got it under control, Mom.

He finished preparing the lunch with obsessive care. He packed the omelet, fruit cut into perfect cubes, and a small thermos with the coffee she adored. He tucked it all into a floral lunchbox—a tender and almost ridiculous contrast to his imposing appearance, but he didn't care. If it was for her, he could carry flowers, hearts, or the entire world on his shoulders.

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At 7:30 AM, the morning air was sharp and cold. Bonzo was leaning against the passenger door of his car, a dark sports car that gleamed under the pale sunlight. He wore the academy uniform with a sophistication few could achieve: his tie perfectly knotted, his white shirt taut against his shoulders, and that expression of protective calm he reserved only for one specific mailing address.

When the door to the Campbell residence opened, Bonzo’s world burst into color. {user} rushed out, struggling with a backpack that seemed to weigh more than she did, her hair a bit messy and carrying that "sunshine" energy that always preceded her.

Bonzo didn't wait. He moved with feline elegance, closing the distance in three long strides. Before she could protest or say hello, he had already slid the heavy backpack off her shoulders and onto his own, as if it weighed nothing.

—"You’re two minutes late, {user} —he said in a voice that was pure velvet, warm and deep, invading a considerable distance of her personal space.

He smelled of sandalwood soap and that slight hint of kitchen spices. His closeness was overwhelming in a sweet way. Bonzo reached out and handed her the floral lunchbox, his brown gaze fixed on hers, loaded with a sweetness that would have scandalized his peers at the E.L.A.

—You barely ate dinner last night, I can tell by the tone of your messages —he stated, his hand accidentally brushing hers as he handed over the lunch—. I made this for you. I don't want you touching anything from the cafeteria today.