I stir the pot slower. Let the scent rise between us. Earthy. Thick. A kick of vinegar beneath the surface like a secret.
“Doesn’t mean they bite without reason.”
Father doesn’t reply. He rarely does when he knows I’m about to dig in.
But I feel his eyes on me. That sharp, assessing look that used to strip enemies to the bone. He sees the way I move today. The extra care in the blade work. The rhythm to my prep. The fact that every sauce I reduce is a shade of red.
“She’s not for you.”
I laugh. “Didn’t know I was ordering off a menu.”
He leaves me to it after that.
The hours blur, the way they always do when the kitchen sings. My staff trickles in one by one—Y’kren with her horn piercings and zero patience, Javi the Fratvoyan with the fastest hands this side of the inner ring, and old Breck, who doesn’t talkmuch but makes the kind of fried tarbeans that get written about in food reviews without his name on them.
They all feel it too. The shift. The tension. Something like expectation baking into the air like yeast.
No one says her name. None of them know it.
But they saw her.
And they saw me watching her.
I try not to watch the door. Try not to glance up every time it hisses open. But my hands know when to slow, when to stall. My shoulders twitch toward the front without asking permission.
She doesn’t come.
And still, I cook like she will.
I plate one extra of the fire-root meat. Set it near the warmer. Just in case.
Maybe I’m a fool.
Maybe I like being a fool for a woman who looks at me like I might not be the monster her blood taught her to fear.
When the dinner rush hits, I drown in it with both hands open. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. Cook like the gods are watching. Cook like fire’s a language and I’m fluent.
But every time I bring a plate to the line, my eyes flick left.
To that corner booth.
It’s empty tonight.
But I leave it clean. Polished.
Waiting.
Just like me.
The air shifts around mid-evening—thickens, sharpens. I know it before I see her.
There’s a particular kind of silence that hits just before she walks through the door. Not a hush exactly, more like...a recalibration. Like the room itself straightens its spine. Like the walls hold their breath.
Then she’s there.
Third night in a row.
She doesn’t strut. Doesn’t creep. Just walks in like she doesn’t owe anyone an explanation—and maybe she doesn’t. Her eyes do a sweep of the room, half-calculated, half-defensive, like she's still bracing for some boot to drop. But when they hit that same corner booth—the one I’ve left untouched all day—I swear I see something flicker behind them. Relief, maybe. Familiarity.
