Not the scissors. Her.
Then she resumes cutting like I didn’t just say something stupidly honest.
“I miss silence,” she replies.
I smile.
“That checks out,” I say. “You live with a six-foot toddler who thinks explosions are punctuation.”
Behind us: “BOOM!”
The fridge sparks again.
Sable clears her throat. “Roxy. Last warning.”
Roxy looks at us, eyes wide, marshmallow poised. “Daddy said boom is punctuation.”
I lift a finger. “Context matters.”
She throws it anyway.
This one bounces off the fridge, skitters across the counter, and fizzles out against the sink with a sad little pop.
Sable lowers the scissors and turns her head slightly. “You want to explain that to her?”
“I absolutely do not,” I say.
She smirks and goes back to work.
We fall into an easy rhythm after that. Snip. Pause. Adjust. Roxy hums to herself, a low, rumbling tune that vibrates the cabinets. I recognize it—an old Vakutan march she picked up from one of my playlists before Sable banned them from indoor use.
“You’re cutting it shorter on the left,” I note.
She hums. “Your head is asymmetrical.”
“That feels personal.”
“It’s factual.”
I laugh softly. It feels good. It always does, laughing with her. Like muscle memory I don’t have to think about anymore.
“You really miss it?” she asks after a moment.
“Danger?” I shrug. “Sometimes. Not the dying part. Just… the clarity. Everything mattered. Everything was loud.”
She snips again. “Everything still matters.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But now it’s quieter.”
Roxy knocks over a chair.
Sable doesn’t even flinch.
“Relative,” she says.
I catch her eye in the reflection of the microwave door. She looks older. Not in a way that scares me. In a way that feels earned. Lines at the corners of her mouth from smiling. Strength in her posture that wasn’t always there.
“You miss it?” I ask.
