Chapter Text
☼
A cold, long sweep of bleak blue eyes. “Why?”
She pushes her sunglasses up, slow as a tide climbing the shore, the frames gliding over spun-gold hair until they rest at her crown. A few loose strands cling to her neck, damp with heat and sea-air. “I’m here to be your shoulder to cry on.” She shimmies her shoulders like she’s shrugging on sunlight itself, skin gleaming, deep brown turned honey-bright under the day.
Baz just… blinks.
Because she’s there. Really here, in his doorway. And worse, exactly as he remembers. Her hair down her back in a sun-hungry cascade, greedy for every shard of light it can steal. Her eyes, a soft, lush green, catching shine like a meadow in bloom.
You can see it before she even speaks, she doesn’t belong to this tide. She even dresses with the horizon in mind. A barely-there, sun-warmed little top in a washed, citrus green, thin and clinging and unbuttoned just enough to feel accidental. Some pale lace beneath peeks through, its fabric dips and curves, teasing skin, like it’s all one long dare. A tiny gold necklace rests at her collarbone, a small charm catching the light every time she breathes, flickering like a signal fire. And a low-slung skirt, some soft, coastal thing that moves when she does, brushing her thighs like it’s in on the act. Her sandals reveal toes that are painted neat like even the smallest parts of her refuse to be overlooked.
A look so intentional in a way Oceanside doesn’t bother with.
“I meant,” Baz drawls finally, dragging himself back into his body, chin tipping toward her hands, “that doesn’t even make sense.”
She hums, unconcerned, already halfway inside without asking. She’s holding a crescent slice of cantaloupe, bright and dripping, a ribbon of prosciutto folded over it like silk carelessly thrown. Between her fingers, a cigarette burns lazy, ash threatening to fall but never quite committing. And in her other hand, there's a mason jar, sweating in the heat, something amber and gleaming inside.
“I have a refined palette, Baz.” She takes a bite out of her fruit. Sweet, salt, smoke—she makes something as simple as eating look like a performance. “I don’t expect you to know anything about savoury snacks.” A glance, quick and wicked. “I know you like your food the way you like your lady friends: soft, predictable, and a little too easy to swallow.”
Baz scoffs, but it trips over something that might be a laugh. “She does a few years working as a personal chef to a bunch of rich kids…”
“Dynasties, bitch.” She takes a drag, inhales like she’s pulling the whole coastline into her lungs, then drops the cigarette and crushes it beneath her sandal. “I cater to dynasties.” She lifts the jar, drains what’s left like it owes her something. “How can you forget our meet-cute?”
And there it is, that flicker in his face. That almost-smile. Like something cracked open just enough to let the past breathe. “I didn’t think you’d actually haul ass to where the other half lives.”
She wrinkles her nose, turning her face toward the ocean, visible just past the Strand. The water flashes, endless and indifferent. The breeze catches her hair, lifts it, tangles it, makes it look like she belongs more to the horizon than to the ground. “Your girl’s gone.” It lands differently than everything else she’s said. Heavier. Like a stone dropped into that bright, careless day. Her voice dips, softer now. “I can stomach you beach bums for a few days.”
“You live in Los Angeles,” Baz reminds her.
“City of Angels,” she agrees, the words roll out of her all slow and sun-drunk. A breeze curls between them, fluttering her skirt against her thighs, lazy as a flag with no allegiance. She doesn’t move to step fully inside, just leans there, like doorways were invented for her to haunt. “So you can see how me hunkering down with you daredevils is… beneath me.”
“Daredevils, beach bums…” Baz tilts his head, studying her like she might dissolve if he looks too hard. “What exactly is it you think my family does?”
She shrugs, a soft lift of one shoulder. The little gold charm at her throat glints, a wink of light. “The fun is in not knowing.”
"But if you had to guess," he hedges.
"Shady shit."
And that’s the truth of her, bright as the California sun. She’s always known where not to look. Like some people know how to find water, she knows how to avoid quicksand. All those years of bumbling chance encounters, she never asked. Not when he’d show up with bruised knuckles and that restless, prowling energy humming under his skin. Not when his stories came out half-finished, jagged at the edges. Not when the air around him felt charged, like something had just happened or was about to.
Their acquaintance lived in the margins. In between. In the almost. Stolen minutes. Half-laughs. A cigarette shared on a back step somewhere that didn’t belong to either of them.
She never leaned closer. She never dug.
At first, it drove him insane. Because girls like her, beautiful girls, effortless girls, the kind that broke necks without trying, they were supposed to want things from him. Attention. Access. Answers. They were supposed to orbit.
But she didn’t orbit. She glanced. Dismissed. Looked at him then like she looks at him now... like he’s background noise, like he’s a fly she might swat away if he gets too bold. Like he doesn’t get to matter more than she allows.
And god, it was a relief.
The closest thing he ever had to a friend who was a girl, however fleeting, was... Julia. And even that came with Smurf’s sharp, watchful disapproval, like affection itself was a currency he wasn’t allowed to spend freely. But her? She was outside all of it. Untouched.
So here she is now, ghost and gravity both. His friend. His only friend, maybe.
He used to sneak off to see her. No plan. No reason. Just the pull of something simpler, something that didn’t come with blood or loyalty or expectation.
She never saw 'Baz', Smurf’s chosen boy. Never saw the Cody name. She saw a boy who tried to rob the wrong house.
The estate had been obscene, money dripping from the walls, arrogance baked into the marble floors. She’d been working there as a private chef. He’d made it halfway through before she caught him. Didn’t scream. Didn’t run. Just stepped into his path like she’d been expecting him all along. Broke his nose clean. Promised she wouldn’t tell. And that was that.
Well... almost. She’d handed him a doggy bag on his way out. Because even then, she thought he was just some desperate, stupid boy looking for scraps. A bum.
It made him laugh, really laugh, the kind that cracks you open so hard he couldn’t stay away after that. So he kept coming back. At first, it was nothing. Then it was something. Routine of sorts. Months slipped into years, quiet as tides shifting in the dark. And suddenly, Cath was pregnant. Everything was changing, rearranging, breaking open in ways he couldn’t stop.
And somehow, impossibly, she was still there.
“You didn’t even like Cath,” he tells her.
She doesn’t wait to be let in, just drifts past the threshold. She moves, grazing her fingers over things that aren’t hers. A stack of mail. The edge of a table. Collecting textures like souvenirs. All the while, her mouth tips to her fruit, teeth sinking in soft and slow, juice spilling sweet and golden. “I never said that,” she replies through a mouthful.
She's distracted on the surface, but he knows better. She’s just pretending not to care. She's good at that.
“You told me to choose Lucy at every turn. I can only assume…”
She shrugs, already somewhere else in the room. Her skirt sways around her legs, catching the ocean breeze sneaking through the windows. She picks up a photo of him and Cath with a small, round-cheeked Lena. “I told you to pick Lucy,” she says, inspecting the picture like she’s never seen anything like it, “after thousands of mind-numbingly long rambles about your love life that I had little to no context for besides that there was a nice girl and the girl you loved.” A small bite. A slow chew. “Felt like the obvious choice.”
She tilts the frame toward him, the cantaloupe in her other hand glows sunset-orange, soft and dripping. Her mason jar clinks softly when she shifts it at the heel of her palm, melting ice catching the light.
“Cute kid,” she adds. “Girlfriend is so out of your league it’s ridiculous. How’d you bag that?”
Baz rolls his eyes, but it’s automatic, practiced. “I’ll have you know, most people find me quite attractive.”
She sets the picture down like it bored her. “Just because you’ve managed to charm two girls into squabbling over you,” she said coolly, “does not make you irresistible."
“Doesn’t it?”
She glances at him then, really glances, and it’s like getting caught in a rip current. Brief. Dangerous. “See, this is why I hauled ass out here,” she says. “You need a swift kick in the behind every few years so your ego doesn’t swallow the coastline.”
And Baz... he laughs. Not the sharp, empty kind. Not the one that comes out when he’s trying to dodge something. A real one. It surprises him, the way it stretches his face, the way it almost hurts. Like a muscle he hasn’t used in weeks remembering itself. So he steps forward and pulls her in. “I missed you,” he says into her hair, setting his chin there without thinking. And then it hits him, all at once, the weight of Cath being gone, Lena, Smurf like a storm that never quite passes. “Thanks for coming.”
She hugs him back, one hand patting his back limply. “Is your mistress coming down here?”
“It's Lucy," he tells hers. "Yeah. Sometimes.”
“With your daughter here?”
“I try to keep them apart,” he mumbles.
She pulls back immediately, elbowing out of his hold to look at him properly. “Don’t try,” she says. “Do. You don’t want her walking in on that.”
“She won’t.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Besides, my brother’s been watching her, actually.”
She hums, finishing off the last bite of cantaloupe, licking her thumb once, absentminded. Then she wanders into the kitchen like she’s lived here before, setting her mason jar down on the island with a soft clink. “Which one is this again?” she asks, turning on the sink. Water rushes, bright and loud. “Craig or Deran?”
“Pope, actually,” Baz says. “You haven’t met him. He was… gone for a while. But he’s back. Readjusting.”
“Pope,” she repeats, softer now. Tucking it away somewhere behind her eyes. Filing it under something unseen. Her head tilts as she pumps soap into her hands, the scent blooming; clean and cutting through salt air. “Where was he?”
Baz hesitates. She doesn’t push. She never pushes. And since he brought it up, “Prison,” he says finally.
“Hm.” Just that. A small sound, thoughtful, not shocked, not impressed. The soap foams between her fingers, slow circles. “One of those odd jobs of yours, yeah?”
“Something like that.”
She glances over her shoulder. “Is his real name Pope?”
Baz huffs. “Is my real name Baz?”
She rinses her hands, water slipping over her skin, catching in the lines of her fingers before disappearing down the drain. She shuts the tap, the house going quiet again except for the distant hush of the ocean. “Who chooses these awful nicknames for you people?”
Baz grins, leaning against the counter. “We call my mom Smurf.”
She dries her hands, then rounds the island and leans her hip against it. “Family tradition,” she says, and there’s a smile tugging at her mouth. “Got it.”
He nods, like he’s agreeing. “So,” he goes, dragging the word out slow. “How long do I have you for?”
“You don’t have me for anything,” she says. “But I’m here for a month. Give or take.” A pause, then a sunlit grin. “The family I cater for fucked off to Greece for the summer. Gave me two months off. Fully paid.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I rented this swanky little place down here. My own little humble abode.”
“What are you doing for dinner?”
She shrugs, shoulder rolling, skirt whispering against her thighs. “I’ll find a food market. Make by like I always do.”
“Or…” Baz nudges her. “You could come here. For the evening. See Lena. Reacquaint with my brothers.” A beat. “Meet Pope.”
She looks at him then, really looks, and it’s like sunlight through water. “Or…” she echoes, softer, “I can find a food market and make by like I always do.”
“Seriously,” he presses, bumping her shoulder again. “You don’t want to see my kid?”
“I do,” she admits. “I want to meet your daughter.” A small smile curls in, curious, almost tender. “See you as ‘Dad.’” It sounds foreign on her tongue. Like a word that doesn’t belong to him but she wants to try it anyway.
“So you don’t like my brothers?” he asks, pushing.
“Deran’s alright,” she says, leaning back against the counter, arms loose at her sides. “I can do without Craig and his beady little eyes.” A glance, quick. “I don’t know this ‘Pope.’”
Baz huffs a laugh. “Craig doesn’t have beady eyes. What makes you say that?”
“Last time I saw him, he couldn’t take his eyes off me.” She makes a face, nose scrunching, the memory clearly filed under unpleasant but expected. “It was giving me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Don’t worry about him,” Baz says. “He just thinks you’re hot.”
“You think I’m hot too,” she says, calm as anything, “but you know to keep your eyes in your skull.”
It hits him sideways, that unadulterated honesty. Always has. No frills. No flirting. Just truth laid out bare. He scoffs, because what else is there to do? He doesn’t deny it. There’s no point. She’s—she’s her. “He was younger then,” Baz mutters. “And way less experienced with women. Trust me, he’ll be cool.” A beat. “What’s your issue with Deran?”
“No issue.” She tilts her head, considering. “He’s sweet, from what I remember. More of the silent and brooding type.”
“Wait until you meet Pope.” Something in his tone shifts just a notch. Enough.
Her eyes catch it. “What’s his issue?”
Baz drags a hand through his hair, exhaling like the answer’s been sitting heavy in his chest for years. “How much time do you have?”
☼
“Why?” Baz says in way of greeting, like he’s already tired of the answer. His chin tips toward the chaos in her arms.
The wind catches her hair right on cue and it whips across her mouth, strands sticking to the gloss on her lips. She huffs, tries to shake them loose, but her hands are full, stubbornly so. A baguette is tucked under her arm, crisp and golden. In her hands she carries a vintage loaf dish, porcelain, cream-colored with tiny faded florals curling along the edges, hairline cracks whispering of years and kitchens and stories baked into it. Her fingers curl around it like she’s holding something sacred.
“What?” she says, shrugging, making everything shift. Her top slips off one shoulder. Beneath its pale, sun-washed fabric, soft yellow, almost butter, sheer enough to flirt with the idea of skin, is a scalloped lace bralette peeking through. The top ties over at the center with thin strings that barely pretend to hold anything together, its long sleeves hang loose at her wrists, catching the breeze, while her skirt, flowy and low at the hips, moves like it’s listening to the tide. The set clings to her frame in that accidental, ocean-damp way. And at her throat, a small gold pendant rests, oval and gleaming, catching light with every breath.
She suddenly feels it, the exposure of it all against Oceanside’s evening gust.
“I brought dessert, obviously,” she adds, lifting the dish slightly like proof. “Can’t come empty-handed. Who do you take me for?”
Baz leans into the doorframe. “And the bread?”
She arches a brow. “You think I’m trusting you with something as serious as appetizers?” she shoots back. “I can whip something up with whatever you’ve got in your fridge. Just needed a foundation.”
“What makes you think,” he says, slow, amused now, “I didn’t think of appetizers?”
She inhales lightly. “I can smell the grubby stench of your local takeout from here,” she says. “Some soggy spring rolls, those sad dumplings that all taste the same no matter where you get them? You didn’t get appetizers.”
Baz narrows his eyes, but there’s laughter hiding behind it. “What kind of cake did you buy?”
She stops dead, scandalized. “Buy?” she repeats. “Baz, I thought you knew me better than that.”
He grins now, the real one, the one that sneaks up on you. “Yeah, yeah. So what is it?”
She lets the moment stretch, lets the ocean hum between them, lets him wait. Then: “Lemon poppyseed.”
He makes a face like she’s personally betrayed him. “Poppyseed?” A beat. “Yeah. No shot you bought that out here.”
She lifts her chin, proud. “Have I ever led you astray?” she asks, nose tipped just slightly to the sky. Then, softer, almost an afterthought, “Look, I thought… Lena might like something homemade. And so could you.”
Something flickers across his face then. Quick. Tender. Gone. Baz pushes off the doorframe like he needs to move or he’ll feel too much, and hooks an arm around her shoulders, steering her inside like she’s been there a hundred times before. “What are we starting with?”
☼
Baz can’t remember the last time The Strand smelled like this.
He can’t cook for shit. Never could. And Cath, God, she tried. She really did. But it was always something almost right, something that made him wish he’d just pushed harder for takeout or driven south, crossed the line, let Lucy work her quiet magic in a kitchen and her healing hands on him. But ever since Cath took off, it's been harder to go out there without knowing where to put Lena for days at a time.
So his house stopped smelling like anything at all.
She sweeps into his kitchen, drops that baguette onto the counter, and just… stares at the takeout containers like they’ve personally offended her. Long enough that Baz almost says something. He doesn't. Then she moves, shrugging out of that sun-washed yellow thing she’s been wearing and knots it at her waist, quick and practical, into a makeshift apron made from something prettier.
Now it’s just her in that barely-there bralette, all quiet lines and bare skin but it doesn’t read the way it should. Not provocative. It’s just her, unselfconscious, like her body is the least interesting thing about her. She twists her hair up in one fluid motion, some strands catching the light before they’re pinned into a loose, messy bun. Flyaways escape immediately, at her temples, the nape of her neck, softening it, undoing the precision.
He can't seem to marvel at it when she keeps moving so fast. In a quick, practiced twist of the dial, the oven is on. A pan is dragged out. The fridge door opens and closes in soft, efficient beats as she scans and selects cherry tomatoes, a wedge of parmesan, a half-used tub of ricotta, lemons, herbs that have seen better days but not their end. She slides open another drawer and finds garlic.
And then, without a word, without permission, she starts tossing his dinner into the trash.
“Hey!” he starts, because he has to.
She doesn’t even look at him, already at his sink, already washing her hands.
He lets her. Of course he does. Because he knows whatever she makes is going to ruin takeout for him in a way that feels a little unfair. He leans back against the counter, watching as she moves precisely, almost thoughtless, rummaging. Then, knife in hand, she begins slicing through tomatoes, tearing basil with her fingers, splitting the baguette lengthwise and brushing it with oil she found tucked behind something in his cabinet; it looks like she’s painting something only she can see.
She salts it without measuring, slides it into the oven to toast. Garlic gets crushed under the flat of her blade, one sharp hit, then minced fine. It goes into a bowl she pries loose from the cupboards and, with something creamy, she whips together whatever he forgot he had in the fridge; a squeeze of lemon juice, cracked pepper. She whips it with a fork until it turns silk-smooth. Meanwhile, a pan heats, olive oil shimmering, sliced meat laid down until it crisps, edges curling, releasing that salty, almost-sweet scent like sea spray.
“You got your kid?” she asks, not even looking up, already sliding the bread out of the oven, already moving. Her hands move fast. He wonders, not for the first time, if that’s what he looks like mid-job; focused, gone to the world.
“Nah,” he says. “She’s with Pope.”
“Mm.” She says it like she’s filing it away. “Describe him to me again.”
Baz frowns. “Why?”
She shrugs, still working. A long time passes before she starts layering the toasted bread now with something rich and golden, shaved curls of meat, a drizzle of something dark and sweet that glistens under the kitchen light. It smells insane. “Does he look like you?”
“No.” A beat. “He’s… my brother where it counts. But he's Smurf's. Deran and Craig too.”
She tilts her head, considering. “Does he look like them?”
Baz actually thinks about it. Really thinks. And it hits him, slow and strange, that none of them look like Smurf. Not one of them. No trace of her in their bones, their faces. Maybe that’s mercy. “Not at all,” he says.
“Okay.” She slides the finished pieces onto a plate, effortless, like she’s done this a thousand times. “So you’re the eldest?”
“I’m the eldest.”
“Then Pope, then Julia—”
“Don’t.” The word cuts sharper than he means it to. “Don’t talk about Julia.”
She doesn’t look at him, but something in her stills for half a second. Then she finishes the dish, finding a long plate then arranging it without fuss but with intention, like it matters even if no one says it does. “What else don’t I talk about?” she asks lightly.
“Cath,” he says, quieter now. “Not in front of Lena.” A beat. “And don’t mention where Pope’s been. I don’t want him thinking I run my mouth.”
“Or that you tell me all your secrets?” she murmurs, almost to herself, placing the plate down like an offering.
"Do I?"
"All the things you can't tell the others."
“I guess.”
“I don't need to know more than that.”
He lets out a short laugh. “You don’t want to know more than that.”
“Correct.” She points the knife at him, stern now. “Go set the table.”
He scoffs. “What table? There’s no dining room.”
“Where do you eat?”
“Here. Counter. Smurf does the whole family dinner thing.”
“So why aren’t we there?”
“You want to meet Smurf?”
She physically recoils. “Not even a little.”
He huffs a laugh.
“Fine,” she says, already halfway to his cupboards like she knows where everything lives even when he doesn’t. She drags a bag of flour from the back, dusting the counter in white as she goes. Warm water from the tap, tested against her wrist. She finds something else buried behind cans and shit he never touches. A pinch of sugar. Olive oil. Her hands disappear into it, and Baz watches, because there’s nothing else to do when she gets like this, fingers working the mess into something smooth. It clings to her skin before it doesn’t, before it becomes this soft, obedient thing beneath her palms. “We eat like men,” she glances at the spread with faint disdain. “Plates balanced on our knees, grease on our hands.”
He huffs a laugh, already reaching for the plates—the good ones. Cath’s. He doesn’t think about it too hard, just knows tonight isn’t a paper plate kind of night. “What’re we having?” he asks again.
She doesn’t answer. Because she’s moving. The dough gets covered with a towel, left to breathe, to rise, like she trusts it will. And then she’s at the fridge, pulling things out with that same quiet certainty. Ground meat, he thinks. Doesn’t matter. It smells richer already just sitting there. She finds spices he didn’t know he owned: small jars, mismatched, shoved in the back like secrets. Dumps them in without measuring. Something red. Something earthy. Garlic, actual cloves, crushed under the flat of a knife with a sharp crack that echoes through the kitchen. Onion minced so fast he barely tracks the blade. Lemon, squeezed straight into the mix, seeds and all before she flicks them out.
Her hands go back in. Mix. Fold. Press.
Baz leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching her like she’s pulling off a job.
“What else shouldn’t I know?” she tosses over her shoulder, already shaping the meat onto skewers with practiced ease, pressing the meat so it holds, so it cooks evenly.
“You nervous?” Nothing. He grins. “You’re nervous.”
She snorts as she drizzles oil into his cast iron. It catches the light, shimmers. Then the skewers hit. The sound is a sharp, greedy sizzle that fills the whole place, like the house itself is waking up. “You think Greg and Darryl make me nervous?”
“Craig and Deran,” he corrects, laughing now. “And yeah. I do. You only get mean when you care.”
She glances back at him, quick, before she turns away again, flips the skewers like it’s nothing. They’re already browning, edges catching just enough char to make his stomach turn over.
The dough’s ready it seems. She pulls the towel back, tears it into pieces with her hands, rolls them out with the wine bottle nearby he bought for tonight in thin, imperfect circles. Another pan on the stove. She slaps them down one by one, and they swell. Golden bubbles rising, blistering. She flips them, brushes them with the leftover garlic oil she made in seconds flat for the appetizers.
It smells better than anything Smurf has made and that's saying something.
She’s already back to the counter, dragging out whatever vegetables he’s got. The knife moves fast, rhythmic. Clean cuts. Everything diced into neat little pieces, tossed into a bowl with more lemon, more oil, a pinch of salt she grabs between her fingers. Then another bowl. Plain yogurt, probably something he bought for Lena and never touched. More garlic. Something green, dried or fresh, he can’t tell. Olive oil again, a slow drizzle this time. She stirs it until it goes smooth, thick, something cool-looking against all that heat.
The counter fills before he realizes it. Bread stacked in a cloth. Skewers resting, juices running. Bright vegetables. That white sauce catching the light. It looks like too much. Like it doesn’t belong here. Like her.
Baz sets the plates down slower this time, something tight in his chest he doesn’t name. "Thanks for doing this."
She doesn’t look at him when she says it, already reaching for the skewers again, checking them like she’s making sure they’re perfect. “Shut up, Barry.”
☼
The screen door claps open.
She’s still at the counter, fingertips ghosting over ceramic, turning plates just so, food fanned out in color and heat and quiet intention. The kebabs are resting, glistening. The pita’s stacked in a linen cloth, still breathing warmth. The little bowls of yogurt, lemon, and healthy greens, are placed like she’s setting a scene instead of a meal.
Voices drift in. “Whose Bronco is that out front?” A question that’s already halfway to an accusation.
A snort. “Baby blue? That’s a crime, man. Tell me you didn’t buy that.”
That’s her cue, she thinks. She shrugs back into her little yellow jacket, the fabric slipping over sun-warmed skin, ties nothing, buttons nothing. Just lets it hang. Then she reaches up, tugging her hair loose. It falls in a sweep, unraveling down her back like it’s been waiting too. She drags her fingers through it, loosening what little structure it had, letting it be what it is.
Then she steps out of the kitchen. Lifts a hand in a lazy, almost careless wave. “He wishes.”
Deran sees her first. Something flickers in his eyes, quick, bright, gone too fast to name. His face warms, just slightly. Then it shutters, closes back up into something cooler, more controlled. “What are you doing here?” he asks, not unkindly. Just… thrown.
She tilts her head, considering him like he’s a question she might answer or might not. “Keeping Baz from emotional collapse,” she says, glancing toward Baz without really looking at him.
Deran huffs, soft and surprised. He steps forward, closing the distance, pulling her into a hug that’s easy, familiar. She lets him. Lets herself fold into it for a second, breathing in cologne and smoke.
Behind him, Craig elbows Baz. Hard. “The hell, man?” he mutters, not quietly. “You just keeping secrets now?”
Baz shrugs like it’s nothing. “She showed up this morning.”
Craig’s already moving in, grin wide and disbelieving and a little bit delighted. When he wraps his arms around her, she smiles into it but there’s a flicker of something observant in her.
He doesn’t linger. Not like he used to. Huh, she thinks. Maybe he has grown up. He surely looks it.
She pulls back, looking between them, eyes bright with something teasing. “I like the hair,” she says, flicking her gaze to Deran, then Craig. “Both of you. Very… beachy.”
Deran grimaces faintly. “I don’t think that’s what we’re going for.”
She grins, slow. “Did I say beachy?” A pause, just long enough. “I meant bitchy.”
Craig barks a laugh. Baz shakes his head. And Deran—Deran smiles, just a little, like he’s trying not to. “I take it you cooked.”
“I had to put you out of your misery,” she quips, already turning. She lifts a hand, gestures vaguely behind her. “Go on. Try it.”
They don’t need to be told twice. Boots, bare feet, whatever they’ve got, they move fast. Like hunger has a sound and it’s this: chairs scraping, low whistles, Craig already reaching, Baz already circling, Deran quieter but no less intent, eyes flicking over everything she’s laid out.
And the kitchen hums. Late afternoon sun spills through the glass, turning the counter into something gilded. The spread looks almost too pretty for them; pita tucked into cloth, kebabs resting, bowls of green and white and gold. And at the front, lined up like an opening act, the bruschetta. Crisped bread, garlic-rubbed, jeweled with chopped tomatoes and herbs and oil that catches the light.
Craig’s hand makes it halfway to a kebab and she clicks her tongue. “No.”
Three heads turn.
She leans against the counter now, arms folding slow, hip cocked like she’s got all the time in the world. Which she does. Which she always seems to. “We start with the appetizers.”
Craig squints at her. “What?”
She nods toward the front. “The bruschetta. You eat those first.”
Baz drags a hand down his face. “It’s all going to the same place.”
“Yeah,” Craig adds, “why’s it matter what order?”
“The order matters,” she says, pushing off the counter, drifting closer. “Not everything in life has to be rushed like you’re running out of time.” She plucks a piece, holds it up between her fingers. “Sometimes,” she goes on, softer now, almost like she’s letting them in on something, “it’s about savoring. Texture. Order. A little bit of restraint.”
Three blank stares.
Craig throws his head back. “Jesus Christ.”
Baz mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like unbelievable.
Deran just drags a hand through his hair, already reaching again. “We’re not doing a whole thing, right?”
She narrows her eyes at them, her lips part, ready to curse them into compliance.
“Eat what she made.” A voice cuts through everything. Low. Rough.
It stills the room.
They turn.
He stands just beyond them, like he’s been there longer than anyone noticed. Tall, but not in a way that cuts the room in half like Craig. More like something rooted. A steadiness to him, in the way his weight settles, in the slight bow of his legs that makes him look like he was built to endure rather than impress. His hair catches her next. It's a deep-dark auburn, a little unruly, burnished into something almost golden at the edges, almost copper where it curls and refuses to be tamed.
His face holds years in it. He's handsome in the way time has been patient to refine instead of dull. And his eyes, she thinks they’re brown at first. But then he shifts, just slightly, and the light tilts with him, and suddenly they’re not. There’s green there. And something gray. Something quieter. Like colors moving beneath the surface, never settling long enough to be named.
She finds herself looking a second longer than she means to.
“Someone takes the time,” he goes on, voice even, “you don’t tear through it like it’s nothing.” A pause. “You sit down. You eat it right.”
Craig drops his hand.
Baz straightens a fraction.
Deran glances between them, then away. At the movement at his side.
A little girl slips into view, close to him without touching, like she belongs in his orbit. She’s older than the picture she remembers, less round-cheeked, more defined now, limbs a little longer, gaze a little more somber. Dark hair pulled back, wisps escaping around her face.
It clicks into place, soft and certain. "You must be Lena." And she tilts her head, studying the man at her side, something slow and curious unfurling in her chest. Then, just barely, she asks. "And you are?"
He stares at her, solemn and unblinking, like he’s trying to place her somewhere that doesn’t quite exist. Long enough that it starts to press at the edges of comfort. Long enough that most people would fill the silence. "Who's asking?"
For no rhyme or reason, she feels the makings of a smile on her lips.
His chin dips slowly, menacingly, as if daring her to keep it up.
Before she can decide whether to indulge it, Baz steps in at her side, his presence a familiar interruption. His arm hooks around her shoulders with easy possession, as though this moment belongs to him. “Pope,” he says, glancing between them, “a few years back, while you were gone, we had a job up in L.A.”
She does not look at Baz. She keeps her eyes on Pope.
“Big estate,” Baz continues. “Old money. The kind that hosts those charity events where everyone drinks too much and forgets to lock their doors. We figured we’d lighten the load, skim a little off the top, get out clean.” A faint huff of laughter. “Didn’t go that way. Security tightened up faster than expected. And turns out,” His arm tightens slightly around her shoulders. “Their private chef had a better right hook than yours. Broke my nose. Kicked us off the property.”
“A professional courtesy,” she murmurs.
“We’ve kept in touch ever since,” Baz finishes.
“I have a thing for strays,” she deadpans.
No smiles. No softening. Not from him. Not from the girl.
Instead, she notes that Lena's brown eyes keep still on her father's arm around a strange woman. She slips free of Baz’s hold without ceremony, the movement smooth enough to seem incidental. “I’m just a friend,” she adds, lighter now, though no less composed. “With everything going on, I figured I could lend a helping hand, make Baz survive a few more weeks on real food.”
That earns her something. Lena seems to perk up at the mention of 'real food', her somber face warming ever so slightly.
She lifts the bruschetta in her hand, offering it to Lena. "Do you want to try?"
Lena beams, nodding.
She offers it to Lena and there it is, the thaw. A quiet bloom of delight that softens the edges of Lena's little face when she takes that first bite.
It warm her heart more than it should.
Lena turns, offering the rest to the man beside her. “You should try, Uncle Pope.”
But he does not look at the food. He does not look at Lena. He is still watching her. “In a minute,” he says, his gaze unbroken.
Lena shrugs, already distracted as Baz crouches beside her, murmuring about trying everything, about how there’s more to come.
They drift away.
The room fills with motion again, with voices and the scrape of plates but between her and him, something remains suspended.
She lets the silence stretch, lets it hang. Then, she dares a step closer to him. “So, Pope,” she drawls softly, “is that your real name?”
Pope holds her gaze a moment longer. Long enough that it stops feeling like looking and starts feeling like something else entirely; like being pinned without touch. Then, he blinks. It’s small. Barely there. But it breaks something. His eyes flick away, sharp and sudden, as if the room has rushed back in all at once. His hand at his side twitches, fingers flexing once, like he’s shaking himself loose from something he didn’t mean to step into.
“It’s Andrew.” The name lands quieter than the one he wears. Plainer. Stranger for it.
And before she can turn it over, before she can decide what to do with it, he stalks off. It's not fast by any means, but it feels like fleeing in the way he angles himself away from her, already stepping back, already putting great distance between them.
He does not look at her again.
☼