We eat in silence, the city humming beyond the windows. Rain drips somewhere. The walls hold so much tension.
Afterwards, he stretches, rubs his arms. “You okay?” he asks.
I nod, toss the pad aside. I can’t bear to look at it now. “Just tired,” I say.
He comes closer. The hum of his proximity makes my nerves sing. I sense him wanting to reach out, but he holds back. We’re still unlearning the distance.
He says, softer, “I missed this. Missed you.”
I inhale. The spice on my fingers. The light glint in his eyes. “I never stopped.” The words tremble, heavy with what I’m not saying.
He moves to the couch. I follow. The apartment dims. The holostation flickers softly in the corner. Rain patters. The city’s glow seeps through windows.
He sits. I sit beside him—but not too close. The space between us is elastic, fragile.
He gazes at me. “Tell me, what’s on your mind?”
I swallow. The secret pulses. My chest tightens. I glance at the pad under the coffee table. My fingers twitch.
But then he takes my hand. Not pressuring, just contact. Warm. Solid. We stay in that silence, eyes locked. The weight of everything unsaid holds between us.
I press my lips. “I—there’s so much I want to tell you.” My voice cracks. I breathe slow, steadying. “About everything that happened while you were gone.”
His eyes sharpen. He nods. “I’m ready.”
My heart hammers. The secret screams inside. But I swallow. The moment isn’t safe yet. Not here, not now.
I lean against him. His arm around me. I press in, find comfort. The city hums. The rain falls. I taste garlic, smoke, rain, desire. The secret stays buried one more night.
But tomorrow, I’ll cross that edge.
CHAPTER 31
AMY
Ididn’t expect to see him first thing this morning. The apartment is still half-dark when the smell of coffee and sizzling something draws me from the bedroom. I lean against the doorframe of the kitchen, bare feet cold on tile, hair half-mussed, and watch him. Darun, coat off, sleeves rolled, apron tied awkwardly around his waist, whisk in hand, and Libra perched on a stool beside him, watching like he’s a sideshow.
He’s cooking.
The aroma of oil and eggs and something savory—minced herbs?—floats in the air. It smells domestic. Almost foreign. But when he cracks an egg into the bowl, the yolk breaks and spills golden, I feel a thrill.
Libra watches him with wide eyes. “Is that how you do it on your planet?” she asks, voice full of wonder.
Darun glances at her over his shoulder—face soft, cautious. “Something like it, kiddo,” he says, voice rusty but warm. He adds a dash of spice from a little jar. The smell sharpens.
I’m still rooted to the doorway, mouth dry. My heart aches with wanting and fear both.
He lets out a low laugh. “Okay, this smells terrible already,” he says, sprinkling salt generously. “But we’ll eat it anyway.”
Libra giggles. “I like your smell of cooking better than that airplane one.”
He shoots me a look. I step forward.
“Need help?” I offer.
He hands me the whisk. “You teach me.”
So I do. Together. We beat the eggs, stir in milk, bail into a pan. The sizzle is loud. Steam rises, curling. Our hands brush in the process. I stiffen—that is, until I realize his fingers paused just long enough to let me feel the warmth.
