A few minutes pass before I see him—Kenron—emerging from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a rag that’s already seen too much work. His eyes find me fast. Like maybe he’s been checking. Waiting.
He doesn’t grin. Doesn’t smirk.
Just nods. Then disappears back behind the line.
Good.
I don’t want him to know what this means.
I’m still not sure I do. But things have changed. Why?
He brings me a drink this time.
Doesn’t ask if I want it. Just places it on the table beside my elbow like it belongs there. The glass is smooth, faceted like cut crystal but warm to the touch. Inside, something golden bubbles slow and soft, like lazy lightning. I glance up at him. He shrugs.
“Try it.”
I narrow my eyes but lift it. He watches me too closely, that smug tilt to his mouth just daring me to hate it.
I sip.
It’s sweet. Not cloying, not syrupy, just...bright. The fizz clings to my tongue, delicate as spun sugar, and then it blooms—complex, sharp, a little wild. Like crushed fruit soaked in sunlight and old secrets.
“Vakutan nectar?” I ask, because I’ve heard the term but never tasted it.
Kenron leans a hip against the edge of the booth. “Close. This one’s fermented on-world, though. Grown in reclaimed soil from the war zone north of Trenni Ridge.”
I blink. “You’re giving me trauma fruit?”
He grins. “Only the best for our repeat customers.”
I laugh. I don’t mean to. It slips out and sits there between us, daring me to take it back.
Instead, I sip again.
We don’t talk politics. Not culture. Not war. None of the landmine topics I usually maneuver around like a professional bomb tech. We talk about flavor. Spice profiles. What sweetness does when you bury it in char. He describes roasting roots like it’s poetry—low fire, damp cloth, patience like religion. I nod. Ask the kind of questions I’d normally scoff at myself for asking.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
By the time I leave, the glass is empty and my chest feels too full. I don’t remember saying goodbye. I just remember the way he looked at me—open. Not soft. Just... real.
That stays with me all the way home.
The door to my place hisses open, and I know something’s wrong before I even step inside.
The lights are too low. The air feels too still.
And Dennis is there.
Sitting on my couch like he owns it, sipping whiskey from the decanter I keep for guests I never invite. His posture is perfect, one leg crossed, expression warm and unreadable.
“Kristi,” he says, like a prayer and a warning. “You missed work.”
I freeze halfway through unbuttoning my jacket. “Didn’t realize you monitored my attendance now.”
“I monitor a lot of things,” he says, voice smooth as the whiskey he swirls. “Including where you’ve been spending your evenings.”
