Chapter 8
KENRON
Ihaven’t cooked this bad since I was a larva with knobby fingers and no patience.
The broth’s burned. Twice. The rootmeat is so over-salted even the back kitchen hand cringed when he tasted it.
I forget the damn fireleaf garnish on two plates in a row, and now my prep counter looks like a war zone.
The staff’s trying to pretend they don’t notice, bless their tight-lipped hearts, but the side-eyes are stacking like dirty dishes in a rush shift.
No one says it. Not out loud.
But they all know.
She kissed me.
Or maybe I kissed her. I don’t even know anymore. All I remember is the feel of her lips—soft and trembling and alive—and the way her breath hitched when we pulled apart. Like maybe she didn’t expect to feel anything at all. Like maybe it scared her.
It sure as shit scared me.
I slam the blade down harder than I mean to, shearing through a rootbulb and into the board beneath. The vibration shudders up my arm.
“Careful,” my father says behind me. His voice is gravelly with age and smoke, low like distant thunder. “Your balance is off.”
I grunt. “Steel’s thin.”
He doesn’t argue. Just watches for a breath longer than necessary before walking away.
I exhale and return to the blade. But my hands won’t steady. They remember the shape of her fingers. The tension in her shoulders. The way she tried to bolt even as her eyes begged her to stay.
There’s something about Kristi Montana that gets under my scales.
She’s fire and thorn and guilt wrapped in steel. She walks like she’s daring the world to push her, and maybe she wants it to. Maybe if it pushes hard enough, she won’t have to stand on her own anymore.
I get it.
I’ve walked that line.
When the second knife snaps mid-sharpen, I curse so loud the dish runner flinches.
“I need air,” I mutter, tossing the hilt into the scrap bin.
Outside, Novaria Prime smells like grease and hover exhaust and too many lives layered on top of each other. The market is starting to swell—humans, Fratvoyans, Pi’Rell, all moving like blood through veins that never quite rest.
I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
She’ll come back.
Or she won’t.
But if she does… I won’t pretend it doesn’t mean something.
And if she doesn’t?
I’ll keep cooking. Keep humming. Keep building something in this corner of the galaxy that tastes like home, even if the people walking through the doors don’t know they’re starving for it yet.
But damn it—I hope she comes back.
Just so I can see what her smile looks like when she’s not carrying the whole galaxy on her shoulders.
She walks in like someone dragging chains behind her, silent and heavy and trying not to make a sound.
But I hear it anyway—in the hush that falls over the prep line, in the sudden way the simmering pots feel too loud.
Even the flame under the braising pit seems to hesitate, as if it knows something’s shifted.
My hands stop moving. The ladle in my grip stills over the stew, and I don’t dare look up right away.
But I feel her.
Her presence presses in at the edge of my senses—tight, compact, wound like a spring ready to snap. It’s not fear I smell. It’s control. Drenched in subtle perfume, and something underneath. Iron. Ash. Regret.
I finally raise my eyes.
Kristi stands just inside the door, her arms crossed, her mouth drawn into a line so thin it could slice a throat. She doesn’t scan the room this time. Doesn’t hunt for exits. Just stares down the floor like it’s the only thing that won’t betray her.
My chest tightens. The breath I take tastes like scorched root and forgotten words.
“Hey,” I say, my voice sanded low, smoothed down so it doesn’t scratch the raw edges I can see lining her.
She blinks once. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. “Don’t make a thing of it. I’m hungry, that’s all.”
Liar.
But I nod and say nothing, turning back to the line. I reach for the good ingredients—the ones I save for soul food, not flash for tourists. I don’t know what she needs, but I’ll give her comfort. Warmth. Even if she spits it back in my face.
The plate I set in front of her is simple. Kin-flavored rootstew. Braised meat with ember glaze. Honey stone rolls on the side. Every flavor meant to reach down into the bones and whisper, you’re not alone.
She doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t look up.
But she eats. Every damn bite.
And when I take the plate away, our fingers brush.
Not an accident.
Not a tremble.
Just skin to skin, brief and electric.
She doesn’t pull away.
I don’t press.
Her breath catches—just slightly, just enough—and I see the war behind her eyes. Walls holding against a tide. The long, slow crumble of something brittle.
She stands without speaking.
Turns for the door.
And I say it—not a plea, not a challenge. Just truth.
“You don’t have to lie to me, Kristi Montana. Just don’t lie to yourself.”
She hesitates.
Not long. Not loud.
But the world hangs in that heartbeat. Long enough for her to breathe in, to feel it settle. Then she leaves, steps clipped and spine straight, but not as hard as when she came in.
The door closes behind her.
And I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for hours.
When the staff clears out for the night, when the floors are mopped and the burners shut down and the prep boards gleam under sanitizing light, I walk back into the kitchen. It’s quiet now. Just me and the flickering lanterns, the soft creak of wood, the hum of old things remembered.
I strike the match.
The ceremonial flame is small, steady, sacred. It’s not for show. It’s not for customers.
It’s for kin.
And tonight, for the first time in a long while, I light it for someone not born of my blood.
And I leave it burning.
In case she finds her way home.