Chapter 28 Kelsea
KELSEA
Idon’t know when it starts, exactly. Just that one morning, the kettle’s whistling and I’m not running. I’m not pacing. I’m just…here. Bare feet on tile, scarf wrapped loose around my throat, heat from the stove warming the backs of my knees.
Roja’s not back yet. He left before dawn, muttering about a corroded stabilizer rig and that new supervisor who can’t tell a torque lock from his own ass. “Try not to cook anything that might explode,” he’d said, pressing his mouth to my temple before stepping out. “Or at least warn the neighbors.”
“Ha ha,” I’d grumbled into the pillow, already half asleep. But now I’m up, and I’m not in a rush, and I don’t feel like I’m on fire from the inside out, which is new.
The stew’s bubbling soft, not violent. Smells like garlic paste and root veg and meat that didn’t come from a packet this time.
Roja showed me how to do it properly—sauté the spices first, then layer flavor like building a ship hull.
“You gotta treat the pot like a plan. Don’t throw everything in and hope it sticks.
You build it right, it won’t fall apart. ”
Now I stir with slow, deliberate motions, the ladle slipping through the thick broth. “Don’t boil it to death,” I mutter, echoing his growl. “Low and slow, like good welding.”
A snort escapes me. I’m talking to soup now.
The scarf brushes my collarbone when I lean. I don’t take it off anymore. It smells like him—like heat and ozone and that trace of metal only welders carry. Sometimes I bury my nose in it and pretend I’m not ridiculous.
I cross the room, flexing my toes against the cold tile. A stretch pulls at my calves. I raise both arms high, spine curving, toes pointed, legs long and taut. My joints pop in quiet satisfaction.
“You keep bendin’ like that and I’m gonna lose my mind,” Roja had said the other night when he caught me mid-lunge in the hallway. “Gonna think you’re tryin’ to start something.”
“I’m just staying limber.”
“Mm-hmm. You stretch like that near me again and we’ll see how limber you are with your legs over my shoulder.”
He wasn’t joking.
I do a full set this time, flowing through my warmups like I used to backstage—breathe in, pull tight, release. It grounds me. Keeps the old fear at bay. My body remembers how to survive, even when my mind lags behind.
Once the stew’s set to rest, I flop onto the sofa and dig out the latest trashy book from beneath the cushions. Pulsar Thrust: Bound by His Meteor. It’s horrid. I’m obsessed.
I read three paragraphs before laughing out loud.
“Oh no, Tharx,” I say in a mock whisper, “don’t point your gravitational anomaly at me!”
Ceera would die if she heard this. A ping chimes from my comm unit on the table—a message, flagged with an encryption key I recognize. It’s a simple image: a view of the stars from a shuttle window, and a single line of text. Still boring. Still alive. Keep your head down.
I smile, a real one, and tap back a heart icon.
I’m halfway through a scene involving interstellar handcuffs and a hyperspace bed when the lock cycles. Roja.
He peeks in from the doorway, brows raised, still wearing his work jacket. “That the fire alarm I hear or just you singing again?”
“Ha. Ha.” I glare over my shoulder. “I told you not to come in here till I say.”
“I’m respecting the boundary,” he says, hands up, “but you’re the one who wanted to surprise me with food.”
“Yeah, well, I’m surprising myself too.”
The stew bubbles angrily in the pot, like it knows it’s a mistake. I jab at it with the spoon, take a breath, and ladle two generous servings into mismatched bowls. The smell’s strong—spicy, aggressive. I probably added double the chili paste without realizing. Again.
I carry them to the tiny table, set them down, and give Roja a mock flourish. “Dinner is served.”
He sits, eyeing the bowl like it might bite. “Is it… armored?”
“Eat, smartass.”
He takes a bite. Chews. And smiles.
The smile is brave. Heroic. Slightly pained.
“Good?” I ask, suspicious.
He nods, mouth full. “Mm-hmm. Great. Excellent. Fiery.”
“Fiery?”
“Just—mmph—spicy.”
“You’re sweating.”
“That’s love.”
I narrow my eyes, take my own bite, and immediately regret everything I’ve ever done in my life.
The heat hits like a slap. My mouth burns. My eyes water. It’s not just spicy—it’s apocalyptic. I drop the spoon and reach for water, gulping it like oxygen. Roja’s watching me with wide eyes now, halfway between concern and stifled laughter.
“Oh no,” I wheeze. “Oh no no no no—”
“You okay?”
“My tongue is dying.”
He slides his chair around the table and pulls me gently against him, trying not to laugh. “Okay, alright, breathe, babe. Breathe.”
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s kinda funny.”
I swat at him but end up clutching his shirt because now the burn has triggered something deeper. Not just heat. Not just spice. It’s stupid, ridiculous—but I start crying.
Real tears. Ugly ones.
Roja panics. “Oh hell, no, baby, don’t cry—please don’t cry. I didn’t mean it, it’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten—”
He grabs the pot and starts eating straight from it, like a lunatic.
“Mmm!” he moans loudly. “Delicious! Best stew in the quadrant!”
I choke out a laugh through the tears. “You’re insane.”
“Completely. For you.” He wipes at my cheek. “See? Still alive. Still have taste buds.”
“You liar.”
He grins. “Lying’s a love language now.”
I laugh harder, the heat still clawing at my throat but now it’s mixed with joy and something deeper, something soft and steady. He sets the pot down, pulls me in, arms wrapping around me like I’m something worth holding.
We stand there, wrapped up, the kitchen spinning with the scent of too much cumin and not enough restraint. And I say it. Quiet, against his chest.
“I love you.”
His hand stills on my back. Then he tilts my face up, kisses the corner of my wet eye, and says, “I’ve been waiting to hear that since the first time you pointed a gun at me.”
I laugh again, and this time the tears are welcome.
“Love you too,” he adds. “Even if you try to kill me with spice.”
We stand there, laughing and kissing, wrapped in steam and chaos and something that might actually be peace.
That night, I sit on the windowsill while he sleeps. The night air slips in under the frame, cool and sharp against my skin. The scarf’s still around my neck, even in the dark.
He shifts in bed, makes a low sound. I smile to myself. This isn’t what I planned. But gods, it’s starting to feel like home.
I’m mid-stretch, hands braced on the windowsill, one leg kicked up against the frame to work out the knot in my hip when I see it.
At first, I think it’s something of his. Roja’s always carrying scrap—bits of old wire, bent bolts, little tech charms that should’ve been trashed. But this isn’t junk. It’s placed. Intentional.
Right there, on the narrow shelf above my dresser, nestled between my hair clip and his spare comm charger, is a small carved figure. About the size of my palm. It’s smooth and dark—some kind of burnished wood, not local. The curves are clean, deliberate. The edges polished to a dull glow.
It’s me.
The shape of the body is right. Compact, hips flared like mine, arms outstretched. And there—curling up from one hand, frozen in a delicate arc—is a carved flame ribbon. So fine I almost miss it.
I blink. My throat gets tight for no good reason.
Roja doesn’t say anything. He just watches me from the bed, head propped on one elbow, face unreadable.
I cross to the shelf and pick it up with both hands, careful not to drop it.
“You—” My voice cracks. I clear it. “You made this?”
He shrugs one shoulder, eyes sliding away. “Had scraps. Needed something to do with my hands.”
“Roja.” I turn it over. The detail in the face isn’t exact, but the spirit of it—my stance, the way I hold the ribbon—gods, it’s right.
“How long did this take?”
“Couple nights.” He pauses. “Used to carve. Long time ago.”
I run my thumb over the flame. “It’s beautiful.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.
I walk back and kneel beside the bed. His eyes flick to mine, then down to the figure I still hold like it might vanish if I blink.
“You carved me.”
Another shrug. “Didn’t know who else to make.”
I lean in and press my forehead to his chest, the rough slide of his scales grounding me. He smells like soap and metal and the musk I’ve come to crave.
He brushes his hand up my spine. “You mad?”
“No,” I whisper. “I just… you see me like this?”
His voice drops to a rumble. “I see everything, Kelsea. Every spark. Every edge.”
I laugh, watery. “You soft bastard.”
“You gonna cry on me?”
“Shut up.”
He tugs me into bed, arms folding around me like steel cables. The figure stays in my hand. I don’t want to put it down yet.
“I never had anything like this,” I admit quietly.
“Now you do.”
We lie there in silence, the kind that holds weight instead of space. Outside, the city stirs. Distant hover bikes and the hum of cargo drones, muffled by thick walls and thicker air. The carved me rests on the pillow between us now. And I don’t feel like I’m pretending anymore.