Chapter 30 Kelsea
KELSEA
By the time the sun fully rises, we’re still snuggled up in the sheets, but the weight between us has changed.
It’s not need anymore. It’s not fear. It’s something softer, quieter. A knowing.
Roja stretches beside me with a grunt, arm flopping over his eyes. “Too bright.”
I smirk, slipping out of bed. “That’s what happens when you leave the curtains open, genius.”
He groans louder. “Traitor.”
I pad barefoot into the kitchenette, the floor cool beneath my toes. Light spills across the counters, golden and soft, catching on the chipped ceramic mugs and the curling steam rising from the kettle.
I find the tin, measure the grounds by feel. The smell of bitter roast and spice fills the room like memory. Home. I flick the flame under the kettle and lean on the counter, staring at nothing.
It’s quiet.
Real quiet.
Not the kind filled with worry or planning or counting the exits. Just peace. A rare and precious kind.
Roja shuffles in a few minutes later, shirtless and bleary-eyed. He scratches his stomach, yawning like a bear coming out of hibernation. “Smells like heaven. Minus the part where you forgot the yinnot flakes.”
I snort. “You put those in everything. Coffee should not crunch.”
“You’re culturally closed off,” he grumbles, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
“I’m sane,” I say, tilting my head to kiss his jaw. “There’s a difference.”
He grunts, nuzzles into my hair. “I’ll convert you one day.”
I pour two mugs. Hand him his.
He takes a sip. “Still tastes like disappointment.”
I smack his stomach, but I’m smiling.
We sit on the little bench by the window. Legs tangled. Mugs warm in our hands. Outside, the city hums to life. Cargo skiffs buzz in the distance. Vendors shout. Music drifts from a balcony two floors down.
“Smells like damp stone and fried bread,” I say.
He nods. “Definitely a lower-tier morning.”
But I breathe it in like it’s holy.
This is our morning.
Ours.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.