Page 258

“That sounds like the whole job now.”

“It may be.”

She groans. “Great. Our professional mission and our emotional lives have the same homework.”

“Efficient.”

“I hate efficiency.”

“You love efficiency when it supports your argument.”

“Do not know me accurately before lunch.”

I laugh again, softer this time.

She smiles, and that smile settles into me like a chosen vow.

I look around the kitchen: the terrible pancakes, the steaming karreth, the documents, the artificial sunlight, the woman wearing my shirt and mangling my childhood work chant with scholarly courage. Nothing here is guaranteed by cosmic design. Nothing here is less real because of that.

I almost lost myself to the belief that a flawed origin poisons everything after it.

Now I sit in an ordinary kitchen and understand how wrong that was.

Flawed origins are everywhere. In cultures. In rituals. In love. In people. What matters is not whether something began cleanly, but whether it can be carried honestly, repaired where necessary, and honored without turning it into a weapon.

Anita squeezes my hand. “Where did you go this time?”

“Here,” I say.

Her eyes soften. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

I stand carefully and pull her up with me. She comes willingly, still holding my hand, and I draw her into my arms in the middle of the small kitchen. Her body fits against mine with familiar trust. She smells of flour, citrus tea, and the faint spice-smoke of karreth. I rest my cheek against her hair and let the quiet hold.

“I am building a life with you,” I say.

Her arms tighten around my waist. “Good.”

“It will include frightening truths, political arguments, ethical review boards, dangerous sites, and Brakk’s unauthorized tool lockers.”

“Obviously.”

“It will also include tea.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Songs.”

“With remedial pronunciation.”

“A home.”

She exhales against my chest. “Real sunlight.”

“Yes.”

I am ready for work.