KELSEA
Idon’t know when it starts, exactly. Just that one morning, the kettle’s whistling and I’m not running. I’m not pacing. I’m just…here. Bare feet on tile, scarf wrapped loose around my throat, heat from the stove warming the backs of my knees.
Roja’s not back yet. He left before dawn, muttering about a corroded stabilizer rig and that new supervisor who can’t tell a torque lock from his own ass. “Try not to cook anything that might explode,” he’d said, pressing his mouth to my temple before stepping out. “Or at least warn the neighbors.”
“Ha ha,” I’d grumbled into the pillow, already half asleep. But now I’m up, and I’m not in a rush, and I don’t feel like I’m on fire from the inside out, which is new.
The stew’s bubbling soft, not violent. Smells like garlic paste and root veg and meat that didn’t come from a packet this time. Roja showed me how to do it properly—sauté the spices first, then layer flavor like building a ship hull. “You gotta treat the pot like a plan. Don’t throw everything in and hope it sticks. You build it right, it won’t fall apart.”
Now I stir with slow, deliberate motions, the ladle slipping through the thick broth. “Don’t boil it to death,” I mutter, echoing his growl. “Low and slow, like good welding.”
A snort escapes me. I’m talking to soup now.
The scarf brushes my collarbone when I lean. I don’t take it off anymore. It smells like him—like heat and ozone and that trace of metal only welders carry. Sometimes I bury my nose in it and pretend I’m not ridiculous.
I cross the room, flexing my toes against the cold tile. A stretch pulls at my calves. I raise both arms high, spine curving, toes pointed, legs long and taut. My joints pop in quiet satisfaction.
“You keep bendin’ like that and I’m gonna lose my mind,” Roja had said the other night when he caught me mid-lunge in the hallway. “Gonna think you’re tryin’ to start something.”
“I’m just staying limber.”
“Mm-hmm. You stretch like that near me again and we’ll see how limber you are with your legs over my shoulder.”
He wasn’t joking.
I do a full set this time, flowing through my warmups like I used to backstage—breathe in, pull tight, release. It grounds me. Keeps the old fear at bay. My body remembers how to survive, even when my mind lags behind.
Once the stew’s set to rest, I flop onto the sofa and dig out the latest trashy book from beneath the cushions.Pulsar Thrust: Bound by His Meteor.It’s horrid. I’m obsessed.
I read three paragraphs before laughing out loud.
“Oh no, Tharx,” I say in a mock whisper, “don’t point your gravitational anomaly at me!”
Ceera would die if she heard this. A ping chimes from my comm unit on the table—a message, flagged with an encryption key I recognize. It’s a simple image: a view of the stars from a shuttle window, and a single line of text.Still boring. Still alive. Keep your head down.
I smile, a real one, and tap back a heart icon.
I’m halfway through a scene involving interstellar handcuffs and a hyperspace bed when the lock cycles. Roja.
He peeks in from the doorway, brows raised, still wearing his work jacket. “That the fire alarm I hear or just you singing again?”
“Ha. Ha.” I glare over my shoulder. “I told you not to come in here till I say.”
“I’m respecting the boundary,” he says, hands up, “but you’re the one who wanted to surprise me with food.”
“Yeah, well, I’m surprising myself too.”
The stew bubbles angrily in the pot, like it knows it’s a mistake. I jab at it with the spoon, take a breath, and ladle two generous servings into mismatched bowls. The smell’s strong—spicy, aggressive. I probably added double the chili paste without realizing. Again.
I carry them to the tiny table, set them down, and give Roja a mock flourish. “Dinner is served.”
He sits, eyeing the bowl like it might bite. “Is it… armored?”
“Eat, smartass.”
He takes a bite. Chews. And smiles.
The smile is brave. Heroic. Slightly pained.
