Chop.
The afternoon light slanted through the kitchen windows, golden and thick with dust motes. Outside, the farm looked peaceful. Fields swayed in the breeze, the compound quiet except for Turnip’s occasional grunt as he patrolled. You’d never know there were bodies decomposing in the north field. Never know that death was sleeping under the soil of every approach.
Chop.
My hands moved faster than they needed to. The knife bit into the cutting board with more force than the carrots required.I made a mess of them, chunks uneven, some too thick, some nearly translucent.
Torek would have corrected my technique.Economy of movement, little blade. Don’t waste energy.
But Torek was dead, and there were too many fighters coming, and my hands wouldn’t stop moving because if they stopped, I’d have to think about the kitchen this morning. His knee against mine. The question I’d asked. The answer he hadn’t vocalized.
The answer his body had given instead.
I brought the knife down hard enough to make the board rattle against the counter.
“You’re going to dull that blade.”
His voice came from the doorway. Low. Rough. I hadn’t heard him approach, which meant he hadn’t wanted me to hear him. He’d been standing there. Watching.
I didn’t turn around.
“I’ll sharpen it later.”
“If there is a later.”
My hands stilled on the knife. Neither of us spoke. I could hear my own breathing and feel the weight of him behind me.
I could feel him there. Not just hear him, butfeelhim. The weight of his attention on my back like a physical thing. The space he took up in the doorway, blocking the light.
“That’s cheerful,” I said.
“I’m a realist.”
“You’re a pessimist.”
“I’m still alive.”
I set down the knife. Turned.
He stood in the doorframe, leaning against the wood with his arms crossed over his chest. The same posture he’d had a dozen times before. But something was different now. Something inthe way his red eyes tracked my movement, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of me.
“You’re staring,” I said.
“Yes.”
No apology. No deflection. Just that single word, dropped between us like a stone into still water.
I waited for more. An explanation. An excuse.
“You move like you’re dancing,” he said instead. “Like everything has a rhythm. The way you chop, the way you walk, the way you hold your rifle. It’s all connected. One continuous motion.”
Heat crawled up my neck. I turned back to the vegetables, picking up the knife again. Chopping with more care this time, trying to find a rhythm that didn’t feel like performance.
“Torek taught me that,” I said. “Economy of movement. Don’t waste energy.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to think about him standing in doorways, watching me move, noticing things about my body that I didn’t notice myself.
