She stiffens for half a breath. Then leans in.
“This it?” I whisper.
She furrows her brow. “What?”
“This. Us. After everything.”
She rests her forehead against mine. “This is just the start.”
Outside, the festival drums thunder. Kids shout. Languages tangle in the air. The sky’s on fire with laughter and light.
The restaurant’s quiet now, low lights casting gold against the metal counters. Outside, the plaza still twinkles with the aftermath of the Sunrise Festival—scattered streamers in starlight, a couple of lovers laughing off a wine hangover before it even starts. The air smells like spice ash and burnt sugar, like celebration clinging to the edges of everything. Inside, it’s just us and the hum of cooling burners.
I’m drying the last blade by hand, slow and methodical. Habit. Ritual. A chef's form of prayer. The war may be over, but these knives still carry weight, still remember what it meant to carve peace out of chaos. I set the steel down on the block with a satisfying click just as I feel her presence behind me.
Kristi doesn’t say a word. She just walks into the kitchen like she owns it. Like she ownsme.And she does.
She’s barefoot, her steps soft on the tiles. Her apron’s tossed somewhere in the dining room, hair loose for once, falling in honey waves over her shoulders. There’s flour on her cheek and a streak of something green—probably basil paste or victory, I can’t tell the difference anymore.
I turn.
She steps close.
Grabs my shirt with both hands and tugs me down until our foreheads touch.
“Still think I’m dangerous?” she murmurs, voice low and husky from the kitchen heat.
I grin, teeth catching the edge of her bottom lip. “Always.”
Then I lift her onto the counter.
The kiss comes like fire—no slow burn, no prelude. Justflame.Her hands tangle in my hair, dragging me close, mouths clashing like we’re still trying to win something. But there’s nothing left to fight for. We already won. We’vealready won.
The metal of the counter’s cool against her thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat rising between us. She wraps her legs around my waist, anchoring me there like gravity, like truth. My hands roam—one cradles the back of her neck, the other grips her hip, grounding us both in this moment, this body, this now.
She breaks the kiss long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to mine. Her fingers slip beneath my collar, find the line of old scars there, trace them like braille.
“No regrets?” she asks, soft.
“Only that we didn’t do this sooner.”
She smiles. Then bites my shoulder. Light. Possessive.
I growl in response and hike her closer, dragging her forward until she’s flush against me, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. The kitchen around us fades—no sizzling oil, noclatter of plates, no echo of the past. Just hands, lips, breath, need.
“I used to dream of this,” she says against my mouth. “Back when I was still too afraid to want it.”
“I always wanted it,” I tell her. “Even when I hated you.”
She laughs. A real one. From her belly. The kind that makes the world feel okay again.
She yanks me down and kisses me until we forget what day it is.
Until the galaxy shrinks to the space between our bodies.
Until the heat that started it all roars back to life.
CHAPTER 31
