“You wound me,” I say.
“Your ego deserves it.”
The tension’s still there, but it’s bending, melting. Her fingers move more confidently with every motion. Her laughter comes easier. And me? I’ve never felt this kind of buzz—not from war, not from food, not from the kind of attention that comes with holonet cameras.
It’s her.
It’s her and me and this tiny, flickering thing we’ve built in the middle of spice and spectacle.
When Dood finally calls cut, the applause that follows is real. His eyes gleam.
“Chef Kenron,” he says, still laughing, “I came for the food, but I’m staying for the drama. That was art. Real, spicy, flame-tongued art.”
Kristi’s face is flushed—whether from heat or attention, I can’t tell.
Probably both.
The crew starts packing up, and the kitchen buzz dims. I lean in, reaching to brush a loose strand of her hair back from her cheek. It’s soft. Softer than I imagined.
“You taste like wildfire,” I murmur.
She looks up at me, lips parted. Doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t have to.
I know she heard it.
I know she felt it.
And I know I’m already in too deep.
CHAPTER 7
KRISTI
Iwake up like the world’s been flipped on its side—like gravity’s decided to take a day off and I’m just free-floating in someone else’s skin.
It’s not the bed. Or the weak Novarian sunlight leaking through the blinds. It’s something in my chest. An ache, sure, but not the kind I know. Not grief. Not rage. This is newer, rawer—like something’s been cracked open inside me and left that way.
Kenron.
His name hammers through my skull like a heartbeat. I can still feel the ghost of his hand on my cheek. Still taste the heat of the kitchen, the way his laugh rolled through me like thunder in my ribs. I should be angry. Mortified. Something. But I’m just... spinning.
I try to drown it in routine.
Drag myself to the archives. Bury myself in dataclips and war logs and chemical decay reports so old they’ve probably outlived the people they describe. I click. I scan. I file. I highlight. I pretend.
But it doesn’t work.
His voice worms in between the lines of text. His grin shadows every flicker of the holo-display. I catch myself smiling at nothing. I catch myselfwanting.
And that’s the worst part.
Because I’m not supposed to wantanythingfrom someone like him.
By midday, I’m snapping at coworkers and skipping half my work orders. I log out early. Tell myself it’s just stress. Maybe low blood sugar. Maybe the brandy in my cabinet needs dusting.
But instead of going home, my feet take me somewhere else.
