“I’m out.”
He sticks his hand out. “Then I guess I’m the new boss.”
“Congratulations,” I say dryly. “I’m sure it’ll be glamorous.”
He grins. “Only if I can wear your old coat.”
“Burn it.”
We both laugh.
But beneath it, there’s something like goodbye. Not tragic. Just necessary.
By the time I get back upstairs, the night’s cooled. The halls are quiet, the faint hum of security drones outside. I pause outside Kairo’s door, hear soft music playing—a lullaby, maybe, for Ben. I don’t knock.
Instead, I head to the kitchen. There’s a half-empty bottle of cheap wine on the counter, two mugs, and a plate of leftover marshmallow volcanoes from the kids’ science fair. The sugar smell still hangs in the air—burnt and sweet.
I grab the mugs, pour what’s left of the wine. It fizzes faintly, cheap carbonation biting the air. Kairo steps in a minute later, barefoot, hair loose, face tired but softer than I’ve ever seen it.
She looks at the mugs, then at me.
“Celebrating or grieving?” she asks.
“Depends,” I say. “Maybe both.”
She smiles and takes one mug. “Then let’s call it surviving.”
We sit at the long wooden table, elbows touching, the city’s neon spill leaking through the blinds.
“To new things,” she says.
I raise mine. “To real things.”
We clink.
The wine’s terrible—vinegar and dust—but it doesn’t matter. The moment’s perfect. For once, we don’t need words.
Kairo sets her mug down. “You know, when I met you, I thought you were all sharp edges. Like if I got too close, I’d bleed.”
“Pretty accurate,” I say.
She smirks. “Maybe. But now you just look… tired.”
“Retirement’ll do that to a man.”
Her laugh is soft, genuine. “So you really turned them down.”
“I did. For good.”
“What’d they offer?”
“Everything.”
“And what’d you choose instead?”
I look at her. “You two.”
Her breath catches. “You mean that?”
