Epilogue — Cain
Three Years Later
The dishwasher is open and Anna's standing in front of it with her arms crossed, staring at it like it personally offended her.
"That's not how you load a dishwasher," she says.
I look up from my laptop at the kitchen table. The same table where we first sat across from each other, where she presented case law and I countered with operational need, where I realized I wanted to keep arguing with her indefinitely.
"It's loaded," I say. "Dishes go in, get clean, come out. System works."
"The system is inefficient." She gestures at the top rack. "You put the mugs facing the wrong direction. Water won't reach inside them properly."
"They get clean."
"They get adequately clean. There's a difference."
I close the laptop. This is happening whether I want it to or not, and if I'm honest, I don't want it not to. This is what we do. How we work.
"Show me the correct way," I say.
She pulls out the top rack, starts rearranging mugs with the precision she brings to everything. "Handles facing down and to the side. Allows maximum water coverage. Also prevents pooling in the concave bottom."
"You researched this."
"I observe patterns and optimize systems. That's not research, it's basic competence."
"You researched dishwasher loading efficiency."
She doesn't look at me but I catch the corner of her mouth twitching. "There was an article in my news feed."
"You read an article about dishwasher loading."
"It was well-cited."
I stand, walk over to where she's reorganizing the entire top rack. She's wearing one of my shirts over leggings, hair pulled back, barefoot on the kitchen tile.
"The mugs were fine where they were," I say.
"The mugs were functional where they were. Now they'll be optimal." She shifts a bowl to a different angle. "There's a difference between adequate and correct."
"You realize you sound like you're arguing case law about dishes."
"I realize you loaded the dishwasher like someone who doesn't care about efficiency."
"I loaded the dishwasher like someone who has other things to think about."
"Clearly." She closes the top rack, opens the bottom. Stares at my plate arrangement. "Oh no."
"What?"
"You put a cutting board on the bottom rack."
"Where else would it go?"
"The side! Vertically, along the side, so it doesn't block water flow to everything behind it." She's pulling the board out, repositioning it. "This is basic physics. Water needs to reach all surfaces."
"Anna."
"Don't 'Anna' me. You're the one who loaded this like you were in a hurry."
"I was in a hurry. Had a call with Clint in ten minutes."
"Being in a hurry doesn't exempt you from doing things correctly."
I lean against the counter, watching her rearrange the bottom rack with the same focus she brings to contract review. "You want to redo the whole thing."
"I want it done right." She glances up at me. "Unless you think your way is actually better."
"I think my way gets the dishes clean."
"And my way gets them cleaner, more efficiently, using less water and energy." She closes the bottom rack, straightens up. "But if you prefer waste—"
"I don't prefer waste."
"Then you'll load it correctly next time."
"Your way."
"The correct way." She's trying not to smile. I can see it in her eyes, the way her jaw sets when she's holding back.
"Say it," I tell her.
"Say what?"
"That you win."
"I don't need to say it. The improved dishwasher efficiency speaks for itself."
I pull her closer by the hem of the shirt she's wearing. My shirt. Has been wearing my shirts around the house and it still does something to me every time.
"You researched dishwasher loading strategies," I say.
"I read one article."
"You read one article and developed an optimization system."
"It's not a system. It's just... correct." She's looking up at me now, that sharp intelligence in her eyes that made me want to keep arguing with her in the first place. "You could just admit I'm right."
"You are right."
She blinks. "That was fast."
"I pick my battles."
"Since when?"
"Since I figured out which battles actually matter." I brush a strand of hair back from her face. "This isn't one of them."
Her expression softens slightly. "You're conceding dishwasher methodology."
"I'm acknowledging superior expertise."
"That's the same thing."
"If it makes you feel better, yes."
She laughs. Actually laughs, the sound filling up the kitchen. "I'm making tea. Want some?"
"You hate tea."
"I'm expanding my palate." She fills the kettle, sets it on the stove. "Besides, I've been drinking too much coffee lately."
"You live on coffee."
"I'm trying something new."
I watch her get a mug down from the cabinet.
"Next time I'll load it your way," I say.
She turns, eyebrow raised. "Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"You're not going to argue that your method has merit?"
"My method has no merit. Yours is better. I'll adapt."
She studies me for a long moment. "You're being suspiciously reasonable."
"I can be reasonable."
"You argued with me for twenty minutes last week about the correct way to fold towels."
"That was different. Your towel method is insane."
"My towel method maximizes shelf space!"
"Your towel method requires an engineering degree to replicate."
"It requires basic spatial awareness, which apparently—" She stops. Shakes her head, but she's smiling. "We're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"This." She gestures between us. "Arguing about nothing."
"It's not nothing. It's dishes. Towels. Systems that work versus systems that work better." I cross to where she's standing. "It's us."
"Arguing is us."
"Has been from the start."
She looks up at me and something in her expression goes soft. "I like that it's still us."
"Me too."
The kettle starts whistling. She turns to get it but I catch her hand.
"Anna."
"Yeah?"
"You're right about the dishwasher."
"I know I am."
"And the towels."
"I— wait, really?"
"No. Your towel system is still insane. But I love that you have a system." I let go of her hand. "Even when it's wrong."
She reaches up to kiss me quick before turning back to her tea. "I'm not wrong about the towels."
"We can argue about it later."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She makes her tea while I go back to the laptop. The kitchen settles into comfortable quiet, just the sound of her stirring honey into the mug and me typing updates for Clint.
She sits down across from me at the table with her tea. Our table. Same seats as always.
"What are you working on?" she asks.
"Security update for Clint."
"Anything I can help with?"
"You want to review motorcycle club security protocols?"
"I want to spend time with you. If that includes security protocols, fine."
I turn the laptop so she can see the screen. She reads for a minute, sipping her tea, then points at something in the second paragraph.
"That phrasing is vague. If you're implementing new protocols, you need clearer language about who has access and when."
"It's internal documentation."
"Internal documentation still requires precision."
She's right. Obviously she's right.
I pull the laptop back, start revising the language. She watches me type, occasionally suggesting better phrasing, and I take most of her suggestions because they are better.
"You're getting emotional about security protocols," I say after she makes her third edit suggestion in two minutes.
"I'm being thorough. That's not emotional."
"You just used three exclamation points in internal club documentation."
"For emphasis!"
"That's four."
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Narrows her eyes at me. "Are you seriously—"
"Must be the hormones," I say, face completely neutral.
She goes very still. Stares at me. I can see the exact moment she processes what I just said, the flash of realization followed immediately by outrage.
"You did not just—" she starts, then catches the corner of my mouth twitching. "Oh, you absolute—"
I'm already laughing. Can't help it. The look on her face is worth whatever she's about to do to me.
"You're the worst," she says, but she's laughing too. "I can't believe you— I actually fell for that."
"You did."
"I was about to throw this laptop at you."
"I know."
"You planned that."
"Saw the opportunity. Took it."
She shakes her head, still smiling. "You're lucky I love you."
"I know that too."
She reaches across the table and takes my hand, threads our fingers together. "We're good at this."
"At what?"
"This. Being us." She squeezes my hand. "We should probably keep doing it."
"Planning on stopping?"
"No." Her smile goes softer. "Definitely not."
I save the document. Close the laptop.
The evening light comes through the kitchen window, catches in her hair, makes the whole kitchen feel warm. She's drinking tea instead of coffee, wearing my shirt like it belongs to her now, and we just spent fifteen minutes arguing about dishwasher efficiency like it mattered.
Like we matter.
"I love you," I say.
"I know." She squeezes my hand again. "Even though you load the dishwasher wrong."
"Especially because I load the dishwasher wrong."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Neither do we. We work anyway."
She laughs and doesn't let go of my hand, and I realize this is exactly what I wanted without knowing I wanted it.
This kitchen. This table. This woman who argues with me about appliances and reads my security protocols and drinks tea she doesn't like and laughs when I blame things on hormones just to watch her reaction.
All of it.
This.
Us.
"Want to argue about the towels now?" she asks.
"Absolutely."
"Good." She stands, tugs me up with her. "Because I'm right about those too."
"You're not."
"Am."
"Prove it."
She grins and pulls me toward the hallway, still holding my hand, still arguing, and I follow because this is what we do.
This is what we've always done.
This is us.
Thank you for reading!