Chapter 29 #2
By the time I pad downstairs, light footsteps guide me to the kitchen chaos: plates strewn across the counters, a papier-maché planetary system perched atop an upside-down mixing bowl, and a makeshift rocketrigger stream-lining pop-soda bottles.
Smoke curls into the flap of the open window, mingling with the tang of scorched glue and something sweet—perhaps the remnants of the glitter globe that exploded in the oven.
Sammy stands on a chair, hoisting her latest scientific “discovery”: a papier-maché Jupiter that’s mostly pink thanks to a rogue tube of tempera paint. She grins, gummy with excitement. “Mama! He helped!”
“I did,” I confirm, reaching out to steady the bowl as the glue-covered planets wobble precariously.
I steal a glance at Nessa, who stands in the doorway with that half-annoyed, wholly amused look she reserves for nights like this.
She’s wearing an apron dusted with glue drips and glitter—partly because of me, partly by proximity.
Her cheeks are flushed from the kitchen heat and midnight adrenaline, but her eyes shine bright as Saturn's rings.
“Dinner was supposed to be lasagna,” she says, voice soft but carrying across the mess. “Now it’s whatever intergalactic abomination we just created.”
She plucks a long strip of tape off a saucepan handle. “At least it wasn’t acid this time.”
Her voice holds a note of gentle exasperation, but there’s no real reproach—only the lingering warmth of relief that it’s glue and glitter, not catastrophic chemicals.
Sammy cheers, lifting the Jupiter into place. “Papier-maché planetary system—check! Next step: altitudinal booster unit!”
I laugh, a low rumble in my chest that nearly shakes the counter. Nessa rolls her eyes and joins me, crouching beside Sammy to admire their handiwork. I watch the curve of Nessa’s neck dip into her shoulder, the way she leans in close to her daughter, whispering something that makes Sammy giggle.
It hits me then—that this chaotic, glitter-scorched mess is a masterpiece. It’s our life now. Fragmented, gluey, unpredictable. It bears scorch marks of my impatience and my alien misunderstandings. But it's alive.
Nessa picks up the fake rocket, examining the tape job and missing bits of paint. She glances at me. “Nice of you to finally stick around for a real mission.”
I shrug, cheese-faced grin on my lips. “I thought I’d already completed the primary objective.”
She laughs—a clear, comfortable sound—then holds up the bowl-planet globe. “So… should we set this off and wake the whole neighborhood?”
Sammy claps her hands. “Yes! Pink Jupiter in the sky!”
I glance between the two of them—my mate, my daughter, the two halves of the life I chose. The bond thrums gently at my core, no longer a roaring storm, just a calm undercurrent. I press my hand against the back of the bowl and whisper, “Three… two… one…”
Nessa flicks flashes of her phone. Sammy jumps back. We launch the rocket (parachute nonexistent), and it sputters with a pathetic pfft, sending a plume of smoke toward the ceiling fan. The smoke drifts lazily like a ghost. I pull a chair up, give Nessa a sidelong grin. “Workshop success.”
She leans against me from behind, kissing my temple. “Domestic success.”
Sammy shrieks in mock horror: “You blew up the moon!”
We all collapse into laughter, a warm jam of noise and cheer. Later, after we finally silence the smoke alarm and she shoos Sammy off to bed, Nessa and I stand in the quiet kitchen, watching the embers of chaos—the spent tape, the sticky countertops, the planet rubble.
She turns to me, her eyes reflecting the mess in a strange, tender way. Her voice is quiet: “Do you regret it? Staying?”
I pause, glancing once at the planetary carnage, then back at her. This mess, these small wars and victories, are part of it. But worth every moment. “Not for a moment,” I say. “I would cross time a thousand more times to find this.”
Her lips curve into a half-smile, half-sleepy grin. She leans forward, pressing her forehead against mine. “Even if it came with a redneck ex and horseradish festivals?”
Her teasing tone softens at the end, and I feel her warmth seep into me. I pull her into a hug, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breath. “Especially because of those.”
She laughs, a softer ripple this time, love reshaping her voice. Then she steps closer, tilts her head into my shoulder. “I’m happy,” she whispers—simple, profound, and unguarded.
“I’ve won,” I murmur, tilting my head to rest against hers.
We stay there for a long moment, just breathing, whole in the aftermath of chaos.
Above, the smoke-soaked ceiling hints at the madness of the night. But it no longer feels threatening. It’s ours. A testament to the imperfect, burning, beautiful life we chose together.
And as I hold her in the quiet glow of our battered kitchen, I know—this is redemption. Not the kind earned with blood or victory on a battlefield. But the kind built in the scent of glue, love echoes, and unconditional nights.