He sees it too.
And that, somehow, makes it worse…when she walks in like the door owes her money.
Same stiff spine. Same wary glance sweeping the room like she’s clocking exits and threats instead of checking for an open table. She’s dry this time, thank the suns, but no less armored. Not physically—today she’s in a long slate-gray coat that fits too snug across the shoulders and boots meant for kicking, not walking—but emotionally. It’s all in her jaw. In the tension she carries like it’s standard issue. Like she’s waiting to be challenged.
I don’t greet her like a stranger.
“Hey, I'm Kenron, corner booth’s open,” I say, voice low but carrying.
She blinks, just once, and for a heartbeat, her guard drops. Then it’s back up—full shields online. She hesitates in thedoorway like she’s weighing her odds, like stepping further in might trigger some kind of trap.
“I’m not here for your hospitality,” she mutters, voice tight.
“Good,” I say, sliding a thin black card onto the counter. “I wasn’t offering it. Just food.”
She eyes the card. Doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t move.
“It’s a menu,” I clarify. “A different one. Not for everyone.”
“What makes you think I’m an ‘everyone’?” she fires back.
I grin, slow and toothy. “Because you came back.”
That does something. I can’t name it, but it twists the air between us. She doesn’t like being seen. Especially not for what she doesn’t understand herself. But instead of bolting, she steps forward and plucks the card from the counter like she’s defusing a bomb.
I don’t follow her to the table. That’d be a mistake. She’s the kind that needs space to think. To convince herself she’s not being lured into something. I stay behind the line, hands busy, eyes elsewhere, but my focus anchored on the way she moves—like a soldier in hostile territory. Like someone who’s tasted betrayal and decided it would never happen again.
She slides into the same booth. Her fingers hover over the menu card before flipping it open. I can see the tension in her shoulders ease half a notch. Just half. That’s all I get.
I head over with a glass of ice-laced shara cider, nothing too strong, nothing too sweet.
“Try this,” I say, setting it down without fanfare. “Cuts through walls.”
She glances at the glass like it might sprout teeth. “I’m not thirsty.”
“You are,” I say. “But not for that.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, sharp enough to draw blood. But I don’t back down. I just shrug and retreat.
Let her chew on that.
In the kitchen, Father grunts without looking up. It’s the grunt of disapproval seasoned with curiosity. He’s noticed her. Of course he has. He notices everything. But he doesn’t interfere. Not yet. This is my dance.
I watch her read. She goes still, then her brow creases. The menu’s handwritten. No holos, no translations. Just Vakutan glyphs with phonetic cues in Standard and cryptic descriptions like “burned breath of the mountain” and “salted echo.” She’s trying to decipher them, not just the food, but what the act of offering this list means.
She calls out, “What’s the ‘blackened hush’?”
“Smoked eel with fireroot glaze,” I call back. “And a fermented chili drizzle. It bites.”
She snorts. “Figures.”
“You’ll like it,” I say.
“You don’t know what I like.”
“I know you came back.”
Silence. Then, softly, “I was hungry.”
