Roman doesn’t let up. “That’s a man’s brew.”
He salutes his cup in a comical display of macho solidarity, clearly inviting me to join in. I give a halfhearted lift of my own mug, taking a lighthearted dig at myself.
“Don’t tell me you drink that latte stuff,” the cook challenges, acting like he’ll be personally offended if I do.
“Roman,” Nora interrupts with a teasing sigh, grabbing my glass to refill it. Her eyes linger on my injured finger, and she pauses, almost like she wants to say something comforting or worrying or both. Instead, she flicks her gaze back to Roman. “It’s not even human’s brew. I don’t know how anyone can drink it.”
“It’s much lighter than your witch’s brew if you insist,” he throws back, meeting her challenge with a grin.
“It is not.”
“It is,” he reasserts, stubborn as ever.
I listen to them banter like it’s a familiar song.
They go back and forth a few more times, and it’s clear they’ve been at this for years. It’s a dance I haven’t seen since getting to Big Love, and the easy, bickering rhythm draws me in despite myself. There’s a feeling of belonging in their exchange, a well-established coziness. It reminds me of being part of something I haven’t had in a long time.
Nora’s eyes catch mine as she tops off the water, and her expression shifts for a brief moment. Almost wistful. Like maybe she’s wondering the same things I am about what this is, or could be, before shaking her head with a grin and focusing back on her argument with Roman.
I take a gulp of water, buying myself a few seconds to decode all the unsaid words between us. I’m not going to spill thisfeelingsnonsense under Roman’s watchful eyes.
“A latte doesn’t taste as strong as your black coffee but has much more caffeine. Science, Roman,” she says, making her voice sound exasperated. But there’s no mistaking the affection she holds for him.
“Science my ass,” he huffs, slapping an order slip on the kitchen window. “It’s a fancy way to drink sugar milk.”
I finally manage to get a word in. “Is there any actual food here or just mud and sugar milk?”
“Want Nora to cook you something?” Roman teases, glancing back toward the kitchen like he’s expecting an offended squawk to echo from the walls. “Or do you want the real deal?” He hooks his thumb at himself.
“I might not survive that one,” I deadpan, getting more comfortable around here.
Nora shoots me a look, her eyes sparkling. “You have to survive,” she retorts with a mock serious look on her face. “I can’t fight the rooster alone.”
“Can’t let that happen.” My voice comes out more earnest than I intended, but I don’t care. Not anymore.
“Then you’re getting pancakes. You know, to fuel you up for battle,” she declares with a final nod, probably intending for it to sound like a threat. But to me, it’s not. It’s a promise of something good to come. Then she turns toward Roman and shoos him with a towel. “Go make the man some food.”
“Only if he finishes my coffee,” Roman croaks.
“I need the man alive.”
Roman narrows his eyes at her. “Do you?”
“For hunting companionship!” Nora cries out, her cheeks instantly pinkening.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Roman chuckles as he ducks into the kitchen. “He needs some meat then. For the hunt, I mean,” he adds with something that may have been intended as a wink but comes out as a grimace.
Nora sticks her tongue out at his back, and I catch a glimpse of the playful kid she must have once been before her face softens with something deeper.
When Roman completely diverts his attention to the kitchen, she says, rubbing a hand across her arm, “Anyway. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” I reply, and it’s truer than I expected it to be.
She lingers next to me for just a moment longer, and the air is thick with everything we want to say but aren’t quite ready to. Then the kitchen door swings open, and Roman hollers something about the rooster on the loose again. I expect Nora to jump to help, but she surprises me by holding her position beside me.
“Your target,” Roman yells from the kitchen.
“What about it?”
