She glances up, catches me staring.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say, leaning one elbow on the counter, watching the light glint off the ring on her finger.
It’s not flashy. Just a single polished shard of burnished alloy we carved from one of the disabled virus casings. A reminder. Of the worst day. Of the best choice. Of everything we lived through to get here.
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t ‘nothing’ me. You’ve got that dumb face.”
“My dumb face built this kitchen,” I retort, pointing to the stovetop.
“Your dumb face also tried to install the sink backwards,” she fires back, lips twitching.
“That was one time.”
“It was lastweek.”
I laugh. Loud and open and full in my chest. It echoes off the tile and bounces through the bustle.
This—this—is what we fought for. Not just the laws repealed or the trials convened. Not just the fall of Earth First or the restoration grants for hybrid zones. We fought for mornings like this. For the burn of garlic oil in your eyes and the clang of pans and the sound of kids laughing outside. For the feel of her hand brushing mine when we pass each other on the way to the fridge.
“You realize you’re using the wrong knife,” I say as I step closer, nodding to her chopping block.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. That’s a boning blade.”
“And?”
“And it’s forboning,not carrots.”
She stops, tilts her head.
“Is that a complaint?”
I blink. “Not... necessarily.”
She winks.
And just like that, I forget the burn on my side, the scar on my arm, the steel plate still knitting itself into my left shoulder. I forget everything except that she’s here. We’re here.
The holonet reviewers gave us five stars. Called the space “authentic.” “Diverse.” “Bold in flavor and atmosphere.”
But what they don’t know—what theycan’ttaste—is the ghost of war behind the seasoning. The coded names we buriedin the menu. The whispered blessings we tuck into every batch of broth. The silent pledge that every person who walks through that door gets fed, gets safe, gets seen.
Kristi stabs her blade into the cutting board and finally wipes the green smear from her cheek with the back of her wrist.
“Table twelve wants extra heat on the bluefish rolls,” she mutters, reaching for the chili dust.
“You know that means they’re gonna cry.”
“Theywantto cry. It’s part of the experience.”
“Sadomasochism with a side of sashimi.”
“Exactly.”
She walks past me to plate the order, but I catch her waist, draw her close. Right here, in the middle of the chaos.
