"Standard threat assessment protocol," Nico says, and the sincere confusion in his voice breaks the entire table. Even Logan's poker face cracks, lasting four perfect seconds before he starts laughing.
Marisol is already giggling before the punchline. Gunner exhales through his nose, which for him counts as hysterical laughter. The Siren covers her mouth, shoulders shaking. And Isa, for just a moment, smiles real and unguarded before catching herself and turning back to her drink. Adrian's eyes find hers in that split second.
"Lucky for him Gunner didn't decide he was a threat too," Marisol adds, wiping tears from her eyes. "Remember what happened to that vendor who showed up without calling first?"
"He lived," Gunner says simply, which makes everyone laugh harder.
I slip back to the kitchen while they're still laughing, needing to check the pernil, maybe grab the serving platter from the high shelf. Their voices follow me through the doorway.
Isa appears without sound, suddenly there in my peripheral vision. Her black hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, and she moves like she’s conserving energy. Cold is the only word to describe her.
But she surprises me. She identifies the platter I'm reaching for and moves toward it, pulling it down and setting it on my counter. She has to enter the kitchen fully to reach the shelf, crossing into my territory.
"Your sofrito," she says, arranging the platter where I need it. "It's better than Havana Nights. More depth."
From Isa, this is a Nobel Prize. Havana Nights has been Miami's gold standard for twenty years.
"My abuela worked there in the eighties."
Isa nods once, then moves to the sink and washes her hands. She dries them on my towel, picks up a serving spoon, and starts transferring rice to a bowl like we do this every Sunday.
We work in quiet synchronization. She knows. I know. Her acceptance of me doesn't need words. A quiet warmth settles in my chest.
When we've loaded everything onto platters and bowls, she picks up one side of the pernil tray. I take the other. The skin crackles as we lift it, crispy and golden, the meat beneath so tender it's already starting to separate. Steam rises, carrying garlic and citrus. We carry it out together, and conversation pauses as the aroma hits the room.
The table has been extended past its usual boundaries, mismatched chairs pulled from other rooms. We squeeze in, elbows bumping, knees knocking, nobody complaining because proximity is the point. Adrian pours wine into whatever glass is closest, Marisol tells a story about Chicago that has Nico covering his face, Logan listens with that stillness that means he's memorizing everything.
I'm not watching from the outside anymore. Not checking exits or calculating threats. I'm inside the conversation, laughing when Adrian mimics the health inspector's terrified clipboard fumbling, passing dishes without thinking about the choreography.
Gabriel's hand finds mine under the table. Not desperate, not claiming, just there. His thumb brushes my knuckles once, then his fingers interlace with mine and stay.
The Siren starts humming as Marisol reaches the punchline of her story. The sound weaves through our laughter, becoming part of the room's texture.
The wooden spoon rests in the kitchen where I left it, propped against the wall beside the stove. My hands are full of other things now. Gabriel's fingers between mine, the heat of Marisol's demanding inclusion, the certainty that next Sunday we'll do this again.
I notice Logan once, briefly. Present in the laughter, generous with the wine, and somehow still separate from the comfort he's helped build. Standing just outside the circle of light, watching the rest of us be family.
My hand stays near the middle of the table, not reaching for my purse by the wall. My body faces the conversation instead of angling toward the door. The exit mapping that used to run constant has gone quiet.
The conversation flows in four directions at once, stories overlapping, Nico trying to explain why checking the inspector's car's license plate was reasonable, Marisol stealing food from his plate while he talks, the Siren harmonizing with herself somehow.
This is what staying looks like. Not grand gestures. Just showing up every Sunday to the same table with the same people until belonging isn't a question anymore, just a fact. Like breathing. Like the wooden spoon against the kitchen wall.
Like Gabriel's hand in mine.
After dinner, when the others have gone, Gabriel and I stand at the sink, washing the biggest pans in comfortable silence. We've fallen into a rhythm—I wash, he dries—our movements synchronized without discussion. His shoulder brushes mine occasionally, each touch a quiet affirmation.
"You survived Marisol," he says, taking a plate from my hands.
"Was there ever any doubt?" I glance up at him, catching the slight curve of his lips.
"Not from me." He sets the dried plate in the stack. "But I've seen her reduce grown men to stammering messes."
The kitchen feels different now, marked by laughter and stories, no longer just a place where I cook to prove my worth. The wooden spoon still rests against the wall, but it's not my only anchor anymore.
Gabriel takes my wet hands in his, turning me to face him. Water drips between us, darkening spots on his shirt. He doesn't seem to care.
"Move in with me," he says, the words simple but carrying weight. "Not because it's safer or more convenient. Because I want to wake up with you every morning."
