To him.
To that damn restaurant.
The street’s still buzzing when I turn the corner, and I almost lose my nerve. But the bottle’s heavy in my hand—Earth-made, finely aged, smooth enough to knock out a diplomat—and I need a reason for carrying it, right?
So I walk in.
The scents hit me first—pepper smoke, glazed root, meat blistered just past tender. My stomach grumbles like it remembers him too. I hate that. I hate that everything in me’s tied up in this.
Kenron’s not out front. The staff bustle with the same chaos as before, but this time they nod when they see me. Familiar now. Not welcome, exactly. But not foreign either.
I move toward the kitchen.
He’s there—of course he’s there. Shirt rolled at the sleeves, fire licking up behind him, and that laugh again, deep and loud andalive. It lands on me like a body blow.
He sees me.
Stops.
Something flickers in his face. Not surprise. More like… recognition.
“Back so soon?” he says, wiping his hands on a towel. “I thought maybe you’d run for the hills.”
“I thought about it,” I admit, holding up the bottle. “But then I thought you might be the kind of man who appreciates a good bribe.”
He grins. It does dangerous things to my pulse.
“You brought me a peace offering?”
“I brought me a justification.”
“Ah,” he says, stepping closer. “That I understand.”
He takes the bottle from me, his fingers brushing mine again. This time I don’t flinch. Don’t pull away. I just watch his eyes as they trace over the label, then back to me.
“This is expensive.”
“I know.”
“Sentimental?”
“No,” I lie.
He uncorks it with the ease of a man who’s seen war and made stew in its ashes. Pours two glasses. Hands me one without ceremony.
“To confusion,” I say.
“To curiosity,” he counters.
We drink.
It burns like truth.
And for the first time in a long, long time, I let myself just bethere. In that moment. In that heat. With him.
It’s safer to skim the surface—to talk about things that can’t cut you open. Trade tariffs. The price of Earth-grown peppers. How the local market’s been gouging on synth-oil again. Things that sound like conversation but aren’t really.
I sip my brandy slow. He ladles stew into a bowl, the scent curling up in a heady, rich swirl of roasted bone and coriander.
