Chapter 3
KRISTI
I’m not lost.
I tell myself that even as I stand beneath the same flickering streetlight outside that same glowing doorway, arms stiff at my sides, heart doing that anxious little lurch it hasn’t done since I was a teenager.
I tell myself this is just a convenient stop on the way home.
A fluke. Coincidence. Efficiency, even. Just smart routing on a wet night with tired feet and a hungry gut.
But I know better.
It’s been circling in my head since last night—that look he gave me. The Vakutan. Kenron. Like I wasn’t something to dissect. Like he wasn’t waiting to catch me saying something wrong. There wasn’t pity in his eyes. No contempt either. Just… interest. And that’s what I can’t shake.
He didn’t flinch when I looked at him like he was a disease.
He didn’t lower his voice or avert his gaze or apologize for existing. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he was halfway through solving. And he didn’t hate me for being jagged.
That shouldn’t matter. But here I am again.
I don’t hesitate this time. I step through the door like it’s mine to open, and I brace myself—for the prickling discomfort in my skin, the buzz of confrontation, the eyes I know will snap toward the lone human woman walking into an alien-owned business on a crowded night.
I’m ready for the suspicion. The scrutiny.
But it doesn’t come.
What greets me instead is warmth. Familiarity.
The air is thick with the scent of smoked meat and searing spices.
Fireroot oil, charred bone, crushed citrus rind and something richer—roasted marrow maybe, or dark fermented pepper mash.
It wraps around me like a cloak, sinks into my clothes, my skin, and for a breath I forget how much I hated this place just twenty-four hours ago.
The restaurant is loud. Laughing-loud. Full.
Every table’s taken except the one in the corner. My corner, apparently. I don’t recognize anyone here except for one Drevia server—same one as yesterday—and she gives me a short nod like I’m expected. Maybe even welcome.
The crowd is mixed. Human workers in high-visibility work vests sharing thick bowls of something red and steaming with blue-skinned contractors in dock-league uniforms. A tall, thin Fratvoyan couple feed each other with delicate two-pronged sticks while a stocky human woman coos over her baby strapped to her chest. A group of teenagers—three human, two Vakutan, one Sereen—laugh so hard at one end of a communal table that I feel it in my chest.
And nobody stops laughing when I enter.
No one goes quiet.
No one looks at me like I don’t belong.
It’s… unsettling.
I slip into the same booth as yesterday, my arms folded tightly across my chest like a makeshift armor. I keep my spine straight, eyes forward, hands in plain sight. Military posture, except I’ve never been military.
I’m not relaxing. No matter what it looks like.
Even if the seat feels familiar under my thighs, even if the hum of conversation doesn’t grate as much tonight. Even if part of me thinks about the way he smiled when he saw me last night and wonders if he’ll look at me like that again.
That thought is dangerous.
I shouldn’t be thinking about the way he looks at all.
But there’s a reason I’m here. And it’s not just the food. It’s not just convenience. And it's not just that warm, open heat that spilled out from the kitchen and laced itself into my bloodstream before I even sat down.
It’s him.
And I’m not ready to admit that. Not yet.
So I sit in the corner with my arms crossed, pretending to read a menu I already know by heart, pretending I don’t feel like less of an outsider tonight.
Pretending I’m not waiting for his eyes to find me.
I don’t look up when I hear the kitchen door swing open.
But I feel him. The shift in the room. The low rumble of his voice somewhere behind me, speaking in that deep Vakutan register that rolls through bone before it hits the ear. He’s not calling my name—he doesn’t know it, not yet. But somehow I know he’s coming toward me.
A plate lands in front of me. Not too hard. Just enough to be deliberate.
I glance up.
Kenron is already walking away. No fanfare. No explanation. Just that same easy grin and a nod like we’re old friends who’ve done this a thousand times before. There’s no menu. No order taken. He just brought me something.
It’s not what I had yesterday.
This one looks like a challenge. Thick cuts of some kind of root-meat, blistered on the outside, dark red sauce pooling around its base like molten sun.
Crushed nuts. Scallion curls. A twist of something pickled and green on the edge of the plate.
It smells like fire and salt and something sweet buried just underneath.
I lean in, inhale, and immediately cough.
Spice. Gods, it’s aggressive. It climbs into my nose and burns behind my eyes. I blink twice, grab my water before I’ve even taken a bite.
He did this on purpose.
I don’t know why that makes me smirk.
I pick up the utensils, hesitating. I glance toward the kitchen.
He’s not watching me—at least not openly—but I feel the pull of him anyway.
He moves through the chaos of the kitchen like he belongs there, all firelight and muscle and that ridiculous, easy confidence that makes everything around him feel like a stage built just for him.
I take the first bite.
It hurts.
But it hurts good.
The heat blooms behind my teeth, down my throat, spreading warmth through my chest like someone lit a match inside my lungs. It’s savory and sweet, thick with depth, layered with a bitterness that lingers just long enough to make the next bite necessary.
I eat slowly, not because I’m afraid of the heat, but because I want to understand it. To dissect it. Every note. Every contrast. The textures shift with each forkful. Crisp, tender, a crunch here, a melt there.
It’s infuriating how good he is at this.
I glance up again. He’s near the back now, talking to one of the line cooks. A Vakutan woman—taller than him, somehow—with silver-tipped horns and a laugh that shakes the hanging lights. He grins at her like they’ve known each other forever.
And I don’t know why that stings.
I go back to eating.
But my ears are listening now. Not just for him. For everything. The languages I dismissed yesterday don’t sound quite so alien tonight. I pick up a few words in Vakutan. Something about fire. About celebration. About someone’s grandmother. I don’t understand the grammar, but I catch the tone.
Joy. Familiarity. Home.
None of it aimed at me, but none of it excluding me either.
A small hand tugs at my sleeve and I jolt so hard I nearly send the plate flying.
I look down.
It’s a child. Vakutan, barely knee-high, big golden eyes and tiny scaled fingers holding a folded napkin like it’s a holy offering.
She grins up at me with a gap in her front teeth and giggles before darting back toward her table, where two adults—her parents, maybe—watch her with indulgent smiles.
I stare at the napkin in my lap like it’s a live explosive.
It’s clean. Just a napkin. Probably saw me wiping my eyes from the spice and thought I needed it.
Still, I feel something split in my chest.
I press my lips together and force my face to stay still. Not soft. Not grateful. Just… neutral.
But my hand moves. Just slightly.
I raise the napkin. A small, stilted wave.
The girl sees it. Her grin widens.
And I don’t know why that matters so much.
I finish my meal in silence. The food is too good to waste. The room is too full of life to ignore. The smells cling to my clothes and my hair and I know I’ll carry them home with me.
When I stand, my knees feel weirdly shaky.
Kenron is still at the back. Still laughing. Still not looking at me.
And maybe that’s a good thing.
Because I’m not ready for what I might do if he does.