His brow rises. “Nice name.”
“It’ll be messy,” I add. “Dangerous, even. There are still Earth First sympathizers out there. Still rot in the system. But this… this could be a real step.”
He squeezes my hand again. “Does it come with hazard pay?”
“No,” I grin. “But it might come with a restaurant.”
He blinks. “A what?”
I lean closer, brushing hair off his forehead. “Only if the chef still wants me around.”
His lips find mine before he answers. It’s soft, but steady. A promise written in touch, not words. He tastes like antiseptic and spice and all the things I never knew I needed until now.
When we break apart, he’s grinning.
“You’re gonna make a terrible sous chef.”
“Then I’ll wash dishes.”
“I’ll burn the pasta on purpose,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut again.
I sit back and let him rest. Outside the window, Novaria Prime begins again. Not clean. Not perfect. But better.
And for the first time in a long, long time, I believe we can build something worth keeping. Together.
CHAPTER 30
KENRON
Six months.
Feels like a lifetime and a blink all at once. Six months since we cracked the shell off a lie so thick it almost choked a world. Six months since Kristi looked me in the eye and said, “You didn’t run,” and I finally let myself believe maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to anymore either.
And now?
Now Novaria Prime sings with life.
I stand at the edge of my kitchen—ourkitchen—and watch as the crowd outside pulses like a living sea. Color splashes across the skyline in long, lazy arcs: shimmering banners of every species and dialect, not just Vakutan reds and silvers this time. Fratvoyan lattice lanterns. Tershi flame kites. Even a ragtag Drevia drumline that bangs rhythm loud enough to shake the glassware.
The Sunrise Festival’s returned—not as a bullseye for hate, but a goddamn triumph. A middle finger to the people who tried to silence joy. The plaza’s packed elbow-to-ribcage with vendors, families, lovers, out-of-towners, off-worlders. The food stalls hum like tuned engines, and the air smells like grilledspicefruit, roasted sealamb, and fried taro roots dipped in alien sugar glazes.
And in the middle of it all, right off the central promenade, isBlade & Spoon.
My place.
Rebuilt. Reinforced. Reclaimed.
And already booked out for the night with a line curled around the block and a waitlist three pages deep on the holopad.
“Kenron!” Breck yells from the back as he carries a tray of smoked frillfish up from the cellar. “Need you at station three. Pickled root’s burnin’ again!”
“Tell Javi she’s got one job and that job ain’t ‘flambé the fuckin’ pantry,’” I call back, grinning, wiping my hands on my apron.
“I heard that!” Tavi hollers, somewhere behind the grill. “Tell your root’s got no self-control!”
“Then maybe date someone more emotionally stable next time!” I shout.
I turn just in time to catch Kristi rolling her eyes from across the kitchen island. She’s got her hair pulled back in one of my old bandanas, sleeves rolled, knife in hand as she juliennes night carrots like a woman possessed. There’s a smear of something green on her cheek, and she hasn’t noticed yet. I don’t mention it. I like it there.
