Chapter 31
AMY
Ididn’t expect to see him first thing this morning.
The apartment is still half-dark when the smell of coffee and sizzling something draws me from the bedroom.
I lean against the doorframe of the kitchen, bare feet cold on tile, hair half-mussed, and watch him.
Darun, coat off, sleeves rolled, apron tied awkwardly around his waist, whisk in hand, and Libra perched on a stool beside him, watching like he’s a sideshow.
He’s cooking.
The aroma of oil and eggs and something savory—minced herbs?—floats in the air. It smells domestic. Almost foreign. But when he cracks an egg into the bowl, the yolk breaks and spills golden, I feel a thrill.
Libra watches him with wide eyes. “Is that how you do it on your planet?” she asks, voice full of wonder.
Darun glances at her over his shoulder—face soft, cautious. “Something like it, kiddo,” he says, voice rusty but warm. He adds a dash of spice from a little jar. The smell sharpens.
I’m still rooted to the doorway, mouth dry. My heart aches with wanting and fear both.
He lets out a low laugh. “Okay, this smells terrible already,” he says, sprinkling salt generously. “But we’ll eat it anyway.”
Libra giggles. “I like your smell of cooking better than that airplane one.”
He shoots me a look. I step forward.
“Need help?” I offer.
He hands me the whisk. “You teach me.”
So I do. Together. We beat the eggs, stir in milk, bail into a pan. The sizzle is loud. Steam rises, curling. Our hands brush in the process. I stiffen—that is, until I realize his fingers paused just long enough to let me feel the warmth.
Libra helps too, handing over a spoon, chopping a bit of onion under supervision. She hums in the way kids do when they concentrate. Her hair falls across her face in curls. The light through the window catches the dust motes in the air. It’s fragile and perfect.
When the food is done—eggs fluffy but slightly overdone, toast crisp—I carry plates to the table. The floral placemats, the mismatched mugs, the little bowl of fruit. It’s not a military mess. It’s home.
Libra sits between us. She babbles about school, her drawing. “I drew a cat that looks like a dragon,” she says, grinning. “See, like spikes and whiskers.” She holds up a crayon sketch.
Darun leans close, trying to make out the shapes. “That’s… awesome, Libra. Really fierce cat.” His tone is gentle. He doesn’t mock or patronize. He listens.
I chime in when things need translation—“She means the little triangles are spikes”—and he nods, taking care not to make her feel small.
Libra shifts to food, “Mommy, can we do spaghetti later? With red fruit sauce like I asked?”
Darun tilts his head. “Red fruit sauce—like tomato?”
She nods. “But sweeter. With berries too.”
I laugh. “That’s my girl—creative.”
Darun smiles, and somewhere deep in me the ache hollows out. He’s really here. He’s really trying.
We eat in slow bites. The eggs are salty. The toast’s warm. The tea steams in our mugs. Outside, traffic hums, distant sirens fade in and out. The city is awake. The apartment is quiet. Intimate.
After the meal, Libra retires to the little corner she’s established—crayons, coloring books, scattered paper. She chirps happily. She wants to show Darun every picture she’s ever drawn. He crouches beside her, and I cross to the balcony.
The door slides open with a soft hiss. The morning air is cool. Smells like rain held in glass jars, fresh pavement, green growth. I bring two mugs of tea. Lemon and mint, just mild enough.
He follows me out. The balcony floor is tiled, rail wet. The skyline glistens. He sets his tea down. I settle into a chair opposite him. The rail between our knees. The silence begins, but heavy with something like possibility.
I glance at his hand, curled around his mug. My fingers inch forward. They brush. Neither pulls back. The contact is electric, warm, tentative. I taste lemon, mint, morning, fear, hope.
He looks at me, eyes soft. “I never knew cooking could feel like this,” he says quietly.
I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”
He takes a breath. “Like it’s more than survival. Like I’m building memory again.” He watches the skyline. “Thank you for letting me in.”
My throat aches. I swallow. “Thank you for coming.”
The silence grows between words. Pulses in the air. Our heartbeats sync a little. A breeze lifts his hair. I feel it on my cheek like a whisper.
He shifts. Moves closer. I lean in too. We don’t kiss. We don’t cross that line yet. But the space between us smells alive. The distance shortens, one breath at a time.
Then we hear drawers sliding inside. Libra looks up. She holds out a spiky cat-dragon drawing. “Look!” she says, joy in her voice.
Darun smiles wide—real, unguarded. “Best cat-dragon ever.” He ruffles her hair. She laughs. I watch, stunned at how right it feels to see them together.
That laugh rips open something in me—fear, love, memory. I hold my tea so tight the mug warms my palm.
Darun turns to me. “I’d like to stay here a while. Let me learn what this place is. Let me live in your days—not as a ghost, but real.” His voice is hopeful, trembling.
I nod. I mean it. “Yes.”
He stretches his arm across the rail. We lean until our fingers touch again—firm, full, grounded.
In that balcony hush, sunlight filtering in, the half-light of morning, we begin to carve a place at the table—not just between breakfast and school runs—but between memory and tomorrow.
Libra’s laughter drifts out, distant voices, city noise, steam from our mugs. The silence is not empty. It hums with possibility.
I sip tea. He watches me. We breathe. The secret still lies waiting behind lips unsaid. But now there’s a door open. A soft boundary. A place at the table.