She’ll come back.
Or she won’t.
But if she does… I won’t pretend it doesn’t mean something.
And if she doesn’t?
I’ll keep cooking. Keep humming. Keep building something in this corner of the galaxy that tastes like home, even if thepeople walking through the doors don’t know they’re starving for it yet.
But damn it—I hope she comes back.
Just so I can see what her smile looks like when she’s not carrying the whole galaxy on her shoulders.
She walks in like someone dragging chains behind her, silent and heavy and trying not to make a sound. But I hear it anyway—in the hush that falls over the prep line, in the sudden way the simmering pots feel too loud. Even the flame under the braising pit seems to hesitate, as if it knows something’s shifted.
My hands stop moving. The ladle in my grip stills over the stew, and I don’t dare look up right away.
But I feel her.
Her presence presses in at the edge of my senses—tight, compact, wound like a spring ready to snap. It’s not fear I smell. It’s control. Drenched in subtle perfume, and something underneath. Iron. Ash. Regret.
I finally raise my eyes.
Kristi stands just inside the door, her arms crossed, her mouth drawn into a line so thin it could slice a throat. She doesn’t scan the room this time. Doesn’t hunt for exits. Just stares down the floor like it’s the only thing that won’t betray her.
My chest tightens. The breath I take tastes like scorched root and forgotten words.
“Hey,” I say, my voice sanded low, smoothed down so it doesn’t scratch the raw edges I can see lining her.
She blinks once. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. “Don’t make a thing of it. I’m hungry, that’s all.”
Liar.
But I nod and say nothing, turning back to the line. I reach for the good ingredients—the ones I save for soul food, notflash for tourists. I don’t know what she needs, but I’ll give her comfort. Warmth. Even if she spits it back in my face.
The plate I set in front of her is simple. Kin-flavored rootstew. Braised meat with ember glaze. Honey stone rolls on the side. Every flavor meant to reach down into the bones and whisper,you’re not alone.
She doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t look up.
But she eats. Every damn bite.
And when I take the plate away, our fingers brush.
Not an accident.
Not a tremble.
Just skin to skin, brief and electric.
She doesn’t pull away.
I don’t press.
Her breath catches—just slightly, just enough—and I see the war behind her eyes. Walls holding against a tide. The long, slow crumble of something brittle.
She stands without speaking.
Turns for the door.
