"Preliminary ones."
"Rousseau's had the case for three days." Her voice has gone flat in a way I'm learning to recognise. "Duval trusts her. The village trusts her."
"The village isn't going to be standing in that courtroom when—"
"The village is exactly who's going to be standing in that courtroom." She pushes back from the table. "That's the whole case, Iris. Thirty people who knew her. You can't fly that in from Paris."
"I'm not trying to fly anything in. I'm trying to control the variables."
"She isn't a variable." It comes out sharp enough that we both stop. "Sorry. That was—"
"No." I put down my pen. "You're right. This isn't a merger. I just—" The truth costs me something. "If we lose this place, I need to know I did everything. I don't know how to sit still and trust strangers with it."
"They're not strangers to me," Cat says. Quietly. "That's the part you keep missing. I'm not trusting strangers. I'm trusting family."
We look at each other over the paperwork.
"Rousseau stays," I say finally. "But I'm building her exhibit files. Colour-coded."
"She'll weep with joy." Cat slides the witness list across the table. "Start with these. Monique's handwriting is a war crime."
It isn't a truce, exactly. It's better: it's the two of us learning to fight about thehowwithout once fighting about thewhether.
"I think that's everything," Cat says finally, dropping the last folder onto the stack. "At least for now. The lawyer said she has enough to file the response tomorrow."
"Good." I push back from the table, stretching muscles that have been locked in place for hours. "I never want to look at another legal document as long as I live."
"Same." Cat stands, moving to the kitchen counter. "Wine?"
"God, yes."
She pours two generous glasses, and we migrate to the terrace without discussion—our ritual, our refuge. The evening is warm and soft, the lavender humming with bees making their last rounds of the day. I sink into the loveseat and feel something in my spine finally unclench.
"We're going to be okay," Cat says, settling beside me. "The lawyer seemed confident."
"She did." I take a sip of wine, letting the coolness slide down my throat. "But even if we win—I'm realizing how precarious this all is. How much we're building on something someone could challenge at any moment."
"That's true of every life. Every relationship." Cat's shoulder presses against mine. "Nothing's guaranteed. We just decide what's worth fighting for."
I turn to look at her—really look. The sunset is turning her hair to copper fire, and her eyes are soft, tired, beautiful. She looks like she belongs here. She looks like she's been waiting her whole life to be exactly here, in this moment, with me.
"You're worth fighting for," I say.
Cat's breath catches. "Iris—"
"I know we've only been—whatever we are—for a few days. I know there's still so much we haven't figured out. But I know that too. I know you're worth it."
She sets down her wine glass and turns to face me fully. Her hand comes up to cup my cheek, and I lean into her touch automatically, like my body knows something my brain is still learning.
"You're worth it too," she says. "In case that wasn't clear."
"It's becoming clearer."
She kisses me.
It starts gentle, the way it always does—soft and questioning, giving me space to pull away if I want to. But I don't want to. I'm tired of space. I'm tired of being careful, of holding back, of treating this like something fragile when it feels like the strongest thing I've ever known.
I deepen the kiss, sliding my hand into her hair, and Cat makes a sound against my mouth—surprised, pleased—that goes through me like a lit fuse.
