"Sage," I whisper, my thumb brushing her cheek. "What we have... it’s more than just this, isn’t it?"
She hesitates, her eyes searching mine, before nodding slowly. "Yes," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "It’s more. So much more."
I smiled, a genuine, unrestrained smile that feels foreign on my lips. "Good," I said, pulling her closer. "Because I’m not letting you go."
She laughs, a soft, breathy sound that makes my chest tighten. "I’m not going anywhere," she promises, her hand tightening around mine.
We stay like that for a while longer, lost in each other, the world outside fading away. The kitchen, once just a space, now feels like ours—a sanctuary where we can be vulnerable, where we can be real. And as I hold her, I know that whatever challenges lay ahead, we’d face them together.
Eventually, I help her down from the island, her legs still a little shaky. She leans against me, her head on my chest, as I wrap my arms around her. "You know," she said, her voiceteasing, "this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to see your kitchen."
I chuckle, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Well, now you’ve seen it in all its glory."
"Mmm," she hums, looking up at me with a mischievous glint in her eye. "I think I’ll need a few more demonstrations to fully appreciate it."
I raise an eyebrow, a challenge in my gaze. "Oh, you’re asking for it now, aren’t you?"
She smirks, stepping back and taking my hand. "Always."
“You realize,” I whisper, “you’re never getting rid of me now.”
Her sleepy laugh curls against my skin. “Good,” she murmurs. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for.”
Epilogue
Sage
Sunlight pours across the butcher-block like honey, warm and slow, catching in the steam that curls up from my mug. The ocean beyond the glass is a steady shimmer, the same rhythm I hear in Leo’s breathing when he sleeps. The apartment smells like vanilla and browned butter, and the camera light winks blue, steady as a heartbeat.
“Hey, Fire crew,” I say into the lens, voice low and easy. “Today is a small kind of joy: lemon-ricotta pancakes for no reason at all.” I reach for the bowl, whisk catching the light as I fold the batter. Flour dusts my knuckles. A squeeze of lemon perfumes the air. “Tip of the day—rest your batter while your pan heats. Patience tastes better than panic.”
The little Surge pennant Leo hung over my filming corner stirs in the A/C draft. It wasn’t my idea—to make that tiny flag part of my background—but it’s perfect. That’s us now: food and ice, grit and grace, side by side like it always should’ve been.
I set a pat of butter in the skillet and listen to it sigh. The first ladle of batter blooms into a circle; the edges set, the surface freckles with bubbles. I talk my audience through the flip, the press, the patience. The counter behind me is a neat parade ofingredients: honey, berries, lemon zest in a pinch bowl, a small stack of plates. My plates. Our home.
“Question of the day,” I murmur, tilting the pan as another pancake lands. “What’s your ‘for no reason at all’ meal? The one that reminds you you’re safe?” I smile into the lens and mean it. I can hear the future comments already—stories about cinnamon toast and ramen with soft-boiled eggs and grandmothers who swore by extra nutmeg.
The elevator hums somewhere down the hall; our building is never truly quiet. I plate three pancakes and crown them with berries. When I reach for the honey, two arms slide around my waist, palms spreading warm over my hips like they belong there. Because they do.
“You’re supposed to be taking a day off,” Leo says against my cheek, voice rough with morning and ocean air. He’s barefoot. I don’t need to turn to know; the way he moves tells me everything. “Coach said rest. Your coach,” he adds, teasing, like I’m the one who needs managing.
“This is my version of rest,” I say, letting my head tip back to his shoulder as the camera’s red light blinks on. The ring on his finger—his ring, champion-bright—glints when he reaches past me to steal a berry. “Cooking for fun.”
“For science,” he corrects, tasting the berry like it’s a new play to memorize. His laugh is low and certain, the sound that still surprises me in how much space it fills. “You talking to your people about patience again?”
“It keeps working,” I say, and flip off the camera. The quiet that follows is soft, not empty. It feels like exhales.
He noses along my jaw, and I pretend I’m immune to it. I’m not. “Smells illegal,” he murmurs, eyeing the stack I’ve been saving for B-roll.
“Hands,” I warn, dragging a plate out of reach. “I need at least one photo before you turn this into a crime scene.”
He lifts both palms in surrender, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The ocean catches the light behind him, a bright flash that paints the room in silver. I catch our reflection in the glass—me in an apron, him in a washed-out Surge tee and sleep-tousled hair—and for a beat I can see the last few months layered over this morning like translucent film: games and road trips and late-night edits and lemon zest on his knuckles because he swears it makes his tea better.
I slide a pancake to a side plate and garnish it with a messy halo of berries. “Taste test?”
He leans in, steals the top one clean off the stack. “I’m strictly quality control.”
I roll my eyes, but my chest is warm, loose. Outside, waves tap the shore. Inside, the kitchen hums like it’s breathing with us. I set the camera to standby and tuck the pennant straight with a fingertip.
