#kingkenny

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summary one week married. still figuring out the routines, the rhythms, the small ordinary magic of sharing a life. turns out it's better than either of them expected.

prompt – newlyweds, domestic morning, chef chunkz energy, one week of marriage warnings – none, just soft and chaotic 🎀 word count – ~2.5k note – newlywed chunkz one week in?? my heart 😭🎀 this idea was too cute not to write — hope this makes you smile 🫶

requests are open 🎀

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Seven days.

It had been seven days since the nikah, seven days since the celebration, seven days since your families had cried and laughed and fed everyone within a five mile radius, and somehow — somehow — it still didn't feel entirely real.

Not in a bad way. In the way that something you'd anticipated for a long time felt slightly surreal once it actually arrived. Like your brain hadn't fully caught up with the fact that this was just your life now. That this apartment was your apartment too. That the man currently making an unreasonable amount of noise in the kitchen at eight in the morning was your husband.

Your husband.

You said it in your head for approximately the fourteenth time this week and it still did the thing to your chest.

You lay in bed for another few minutes, listening to the sounds from the kitchen — cupboards opening, something being set down slightly too hard, what sounded like a quiet argument with the kettle — and smiled at the ceiling.

One week in. Already completely chaotic. Somehow exactly right.

You found him in the kitchen wearing the apron.

Not just any apron — the black one with DON'T MESS WITH THE CHEF printed across the front in bold letters, the one that had appeared from somewhere in the first two days of marriage and had not left the kitchen since. He was standing at the stove with his back to you, stirring something with enormous concentration, phone propped against the backsplash playing a recipe video at full volume.

You leaned against the doorframe and watched him for a moment.

He hadn't heard you come in. He was muttering something to himself — or possibly to the pan, it was hard to tell — and doing a small unconscious head nod to the nasheed playing quietly from the speaker on the counter. The morning light came through the window and hit the side of his face and he looked, in that completely unguarded moment, like the most settled version of himself you'd ever seen.

Something in your chest did the thing again.

"You're up early," you said.

He spun around. Nearly knocked the spatula off the counter. Caught it. Composed himself with impressive speed.

"I wasn't—" he started. Stopped. Pointed the spatula at you. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough."

"Long enough for what?"

"Long enough to see the head nod."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Turned back to the stove. "I don't know what you're talking about."

You crossed the kitchen, stopping beside him to look at what was in the pan. Eggs, peppers, onions — the beginnings of something that smelled genuinely good. A pot of water already boiling. Bread in the toaster. He'd clearly been up for a while.

"What is all this?" you said.

"Breakfast." He said it like it was obvious.

"Amin it's eight in the morning."

"Exactly. Prime breakfast time." He adjusted something on the stove without looking at you. "Sit down, it's almost ready."

You looked at him sideways. He was very focused on the eggs. The tips of his ears were slightly pink, which happened when he was pleased with himself and trying not to show it.

"Did you watch a tutorial?" you said.

"No."

"The video on your phone—"

"That's for something else."

"Amin—"

"Sit down, please, you're distracting the chef."

You sat down. You were smiling so hard your face hurt.

He plated it properly.

That was the thing that got you — not just scooped onto a plate, actually plated, with the eggs arranged and the toast cut diagonally and a small handful of cherry tomatoes on the side that you were fairly certain he'd added purely for aesthetics.

He set it in front of you with the energy of someone presenting a Michelin star dish, then sat across from you with his own plate and picked up his fork with great ceremony.

"Well?" he said, after you'd taken the first bite.

It was genuinely good. Properly good, seasoned correctly, the eggs soft in the middle the way you liked them — which he had apparently noticed and remembered without you ever explicitly telling him.

"It's good," you said.

He nodded, satisfied, like this was expected.

"Really good actually," you added.

The satisfied nod got slightly more pronounced.

"Don't let it go to your head," you said.

"Too late," he said immediately, and you laughed, and he looked at you across the table with the expression he'd been giving you for seven days now — the one that was warm and slightly disbelieving and completely his — and the chest thing happened again for the fifteenth time this week.

You ate in the comfortable quiet that you were still learning, both of you. The particular silence of two people figuring out what their mornings looked like together. It was different from before — different from the visits, the dates, the careful presentation of your best selves. This was the real version. Morning breath and messy hair and the slightly too loud recipe video still playing on his phone because he'd forgotten to turn it off.

You liked it more than the careful version. Significantly more.

"Can I ask you something," you said, when you were halfway through.

"Yeah."

"The apron."

He looked down at it. Back up at you.

"What about it."

"Where did it come from?"

A pause. Very carefully neutral expression. "It was a gift."

"From who."

"A fan."

"A fan sent you a chef's apron."

"People send me all sorts of things—"

"Did you buy it yourself."

The pause was slightly longer this time. "...It was on sale."

You pressed your lips together very hard.

"It's a good apron," he said, with dignity. "Practical. Professional."

"It says don't mess with the chef."

"Because you shouldn't."

"Amin—"

"Are you going to eat your breakfast or are you going to bully me in our kitchen?"

"Our kitchen," you repeated, catching it.

Something shifted in his face. Small and immediate and entirely genuine, the way things were when they caught him off guard.

"Our kitchen," he said quietly. Like he was trying it out. Like he liked how it sounded.

You looked back at your plate. Smiled at your eggs.

"Our kitchen," you agreed.

After breakfast he washed up — insisted on it, waved you off when you tried to help — and you sat at the kitchen counter and watched him do it with the quiet domestic contentment of someone who was still slightly amazed that this was just a Tuesday morning now.

"What do you want to do today," he said, not turning around.

"Nothing."

He glanced over his shoulder. "Nothing?"

"Nothing. I want to do absolutely nothing." You stretched your arms over your head. "I want to sit on the sofa and watch something and not think about anything and just—" you paused, "—exist."

He considered this for a moment. "I can do that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He turned back to the dishes. "I was going to suggest going out but honestly that sounds better."

"We can go out tomorrow."

"Or the day after."

"Or next week."

"We've got time," he said simply. And the way he said it — easy and certain, like we've got time was just a fact now, like it was just how things were — hit you somewhere quiet and deep.

Seven days. Seven mornings of waking up to this. Seven evenings of figuring out what prayers looked like side by side, what routines looked like shared, what it meant to build something daily and ordinary and entirely yours.

You'd expected adjustment. You'd expected the learning curve of two people's lives combining. You hadn't expected it to feel this easy. This right.

He finished the dishes, dried his hands, turned around. Looked at you sitting at the counter in your pyjamas with your hair still a mess from sleeping.

"What," you said.

"Nothing." He untied the apron, folded it, set it on the counter. "You just look—" he stopped. Started again. "It's still weird."

"What is?"

"You being here." He said it quietly. "Like — properly here. Not visiting. Just here." He looked at you with the honest expression he had sometimes, the one underneath the jokes and the confidence. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up."

You looked at him across the kitchen.

"You're not going to wake up," you said softly.

"I know." He smiled, small and real. "I know that. It's just—" he shook his head slightly, "—alhamdulillah, you know? Like — genuinely. Every morning this week I've woken up and just—" he stopped again. Looked at the counter. "Alhamdulillah."

You didn't say anything. Just got up from the counter, crossed the kitchen, and hugged him — properly, arms all the way around him, face pressed into his shoulder. He wrapped around you immediately, both arms, the familiar warmth of him.

"One week," you said into his shoulder.

"One week," he confirmed, chin resting on top of your head. "How are we doing?"

You thought about the apron and the plated eggs and the head nod to the nasheed and the way he'd said our kitchen like he was tasting something good.

"Really well," you said.

He squeezed you tighter. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Really well."

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prompt – your boyfriend loses his match and all he wants is you warnings – mentions of boxing injuries (bruises, cuts, etc.), light swearing word count – ~1.9k note – since my account is new I don't have any requests yet so here's a soft kenny fic <3

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You don't watch the end.

You try—you really do—but the second his head snaps back from a hit that sounds way too loud, something in your chest twists so sharply you have to look away.

The crowd doesn't.

They lean forward, shouting, reacting, living for it.

You shrink back.

Your hands are clasped so tightly in your lap your knuckles ache, but you barely notice. All you can think is—

he's tired.

You've seen him tired before. After training, after long days, after filming.

This is different.

This is the kind of tired that sits in his bones.

"Come on, Ken..." you whisper, voice barely there.

Another hit.

You flinch.

That's it.

You're done.

You push yourself up before your brain can catch up, weaving through people, ignoring the noise, the lights, everything.

You don't need to see the result.

You already know.

—

Kenny hears it before he feels it.

The shift.

The moment the crowd changes.

It's subtle, but he knows. He always knows.

He's lost.

The referee's voice is somewhere above him, hands pulling him back, people talking—but it all sounds distant, like it's underwater.

His chest rises and falls too fast. His jaw throbs. His ribs feel like they've been split open.

But none of that sticks.

Because the only thing he's thinking is—

Where are you?

He turns his head slightly, scanning the crowd.

Nothing.

No sign of you.

His stomach drops.

"She dipped," Aj says somewhere to his right. "Think she felt sick."

Kenny's brows pull together.

Of course you did.

You hate this shit.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face, wincing when it brushes over a cut.

He should go to the boys.

Celebrate anyway.

Shake it off.

That's what he usually does.

But today—

nah.

"I'm gonna go change," he mutters.

And before anyone can say anything else, he's already walking off.

—

You're pacing outside the building when he finds you.

You didn't mean to stay this close—you told yourself you'd give him space, let him be with the boys—but your feet didn't listen.

They never do when it comes to him.

The door behind you swings open.

You turn instantly.

Kenny steps out, hoodie thrown on, hood half up, head slightly lowered. Even from here, you can see it—the swelling, the way he's holding himself just a little too carefully.

Your chest tightens.

"Ken."

He looks up.

And just like that—

something in his shoulders drops.

"Hey, baby."

Your heart does that stupid little flip it always does when he says that.

Even now.

Especially now.

You walk over to him quickly, stopping just in front of him. For a second, you don't know where to look—his eye, his lip, the bruises already darkening under his skin.

"Why didn't you text me?" you ask softly.

He shrugs, like it's nothing. "Didn't need to."

You frown. "Didn't need to?"

"Yeah." His gaze settles on you, steady, tired but warm. "Knew you'd be here anyway."

Your throat tightens.

He says it so simply. Like it's obvious.

Like there was never another option.

"Idiot," you mumble, but there's no bite to it.

"Your idiot," he corrects, a small grin pulling at his split lip.

You wince. "Don't smile like that."

"Why?"

"It looks painful."

"It is."

You sigh, shaking your head slightly before reaching up, your fingers hovering near his face.

"Can I—?"

"Yeah," he says immediately.

Always.

You touch him gently, brushing just under his eye. He sucks in a quiet breath but doesn't pull away.

Your chest aches.

"Let's sit," you murmur.

He nods.

You guide him over to a low step nearby, sitting beside him. You pull a small pack of wipes and plasters from your bag—something you started carrying after his second fight.

Just in case.

"Prepared as always," he mutters.

"Someone has to be," you reply, glancing at him.

He watches you as you work.

Not even trying to hide it.

You clean the cut on his lip first, your touch careful, slow.

He hisses slightly.

"Sorry," you whisper.

"It's calm, baby."

Your hands still for a second.

Baby.

He says it like it's nothing.

Like it doesn't completely undo you every time.

"Stop moving," you say quietly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

"I'm not moving."

"You are."

"I'm literally sitting still."

You glance up at him.

He's smiling.

Of course he is.

"You're so annoying," you mumble.

"And you love it."

You don't respond.

You don't need to.

He already knows.

There's a small pause as you press a plaster over the cut, smoothing it down carefully.

Your fingers linger for just a second too long.

You don't pull away immediately.

Neither does he.

It's quiet.

Not awkward.

Just... soft.

"You left," he says suddenly.

Your hand drops slightly. "I couldn't—"

"I know," he cuts in gently. "I know you couldn't."

You look at him.

There's no accusation there.

Just understanding.

"I hate it," you admit quietly. "Watching you get hurt like that."

"I know."

"But I still come."

His lips twitch. "Yeah. You do."

You shrug, looking down at your hands. "Where else would I be?"

He doesn't answer straight away.

When you look up again, he's already looking at you.

Something in his expression shifts.

Softer.

Deeper.

"I was looking for you," he says.

Your breath catches.

"After," he adds, like he needs to clarify. "Didn't care about anything else. Just—"

He exhales, shaking his head slightly.

"Just needed my girl."

Your heart stumbles over itself.

"Kenny..."

"I'm serious," he says, quieter now. "I lost, yeah, whatever. It happens. But not seeing you there after? That felt worse."

You blink, caught off guard.

"I was outside," you say quickly. "I didn't go far, I just—"

"I know." His hand finds yours, fingers curling around it easily. "I found you, didn't I?"

Your chest tightens.

His grip is gentle.

Careful.

Like even now, he's thinking about you.

"You did," you murmur.

He hums softly, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

There's that warmth again.

That quiet, steady feeling that only ever comes with him.

You squeeze his hand lightly. "You still did good, you know."

He snorts. "I lost."

"So?"

"So that means I didn't win."

You roll your eyes slightly. "Shut up."

He laughs, then winces immediately after.

"See?" you say. "Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Being stupid."

"Can't help it."

You shake your head, but you're smiling now.

Soft.

Fond.

You reach up again, brushing lightly over the bruise forming on his cheek. This time, he leans into your touch just a little.

Barely noticeable.

But you feel it.

"You'll be fine," you say quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He tilts his head slightly, eyes still on you. "You gonna take care of me then?"

You raise an eyebrow. "I already am."

"Not properly."

You blink. "Not properly?"

"Nah." His lips curve again, slow, teasing despite everything. "You missed a step."

You narrow your eyes. "What step?"

He leans closer, just slightly.

Close enough that you can feel his breath.

"You're meant to kiss it better, innit."

Your heart stutters.

"Kenny—"

"I'm serious," he says, but there's a smile in his voice. "Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor."

"I could be."

"You definitely couldn't."

"Alright, rude."

You laugh softly, shaking your head.

But you don't move away.

Not when he's this close.

Not when he's looking at you like that.

"...you're actually so annoying," you whisper.

"And you're still here."

He's right.

You always are.

You hesitate for a second—

then lean in.

Just enough.

A soft kiss against his cheek, right over the forming bruise.

Gentle.

Careful.

He goes still.

Completely.

When you pull back, he's staring at you.

"...again," he says quietly.

You huff a small laugh. "You're so unserious."

"Baby," he murmurs, voice softer now, "I just got punched in the face for ten minutes straight. Let me have this."

You roll your eyes—but you lean in again anyway.

And yeah.

Maybe he lost the match.

But sitting there, with you in front of him, your hand in his, your lips brushing over his bruises like they don't matter—