You cuddle afterwards.

The room still smells like her.

You’re on your back, staring at the ceiling, heart hammering, trying not to think too hard about what you just said.

Mariana’s curled against you, skin warm, hair damp against your collarbone. One of her hands traces slow, absent shapes over your chest like she’s memorizing you.

The room’s quiet but for the hum of the old ceiling fan and the soft sound of her breathing.
And Fatty meowing somewhere in the house. Probably found something interesting outside a window.

“You feel safe,” she says, almost to herself.

You don’t know what to say.

“Aline. She… was ten when we run.”

“She grow up in war,” Mariana continues, voice quieter now. “Always hiding. Always… scared.” Her fingers bunch in your shirt. “I think… I was scared more than her.”

“You kept her alive,” you say. It sounds like a fact.

She hums against you, noncommittal.

Her nails graze your chest. “I want her here. With me.” A beat. “Safe.”

There’s weight in those words. The kind that digs under your skin.

You tighten your arm around her. “We’ll find her.”

She tilts her head up then, studying you. Her eyes are dark, unreadable, but you can feel it. The shift in the air, the way her breath catches.

“You say like you mean it,” she whispers.

“I do.”

Her gaze lingers, dropping briefly to your mouth before darting away.

It’s enough.

You tilt her chin up with your fingers, closing the space between you. The kiss starts soft, tentative, but when she doesn’t pull back, you take more. Her lips part against yours, letting you in. She exhales hard, clutching at your shoulder like she can’t decide whether she wants to hold you there or push you away.

You kiss her deeper. Slow, deliberate. Her breath hitches, and her hand moves up, fingers curling into the hair at the back of your neck. You taste the faint salt of her skin, feel the tremor in her chest pressed against yours.

It lingers longer than it should, longer than either of you probably meant it to. And lasts until you finally break away for air.

She looks up at you then, eyes wet, chest rising and falling like she’s been holding everything in for years.

And then she lays her head back on your chest, breath warm against your skin, letting the silence swallow the unspoken words.

You fall into a dreamless slumber in her embrace.

You wake up to the smell of bacon and the hiss of grease in a hot pan.

For a second, you forget where you are. Then you roll over, take in the ceiling and the faint buzz of the ceiling fan, and remember.

You shuffle out into the hallway barefoot, rubbing the sleep from your face.

Mariana’s in the kitchen, bare feet against the tile as always. She’s humming quietly, not quite on-key, but it fits. There’s a rhythm to the way she moves. Flip, stir, reach.

Happy.

The house looks different. Neater. Everything in its place. The usual little tufts of cat hair in the corners are gone. Even the coffee table’s been wiped down.

Fatty has parked himself near the fridge, sitting prim and proper, pretending he isn’t waiting for a bribe.

You lean against the doorframe and just watch.

She glances over her shoulder and notices you, and smiles like she knew you had been standing there the whole time. “Eggs?”

“Yeah,” you rasp, still half-asleep. “Scrambled.”

She nods and turns back to the pan.

You watch her work, deft and practiced. A pinch of salt. The whisking sound.

“You’re good at that,” you say.

She laughs softly. “Long time. Watch… many shows.” She tilts her head, trying to find the word. “Television. Cooking… programs.”

“Explains the presentation,” you say, nodding toward the pan. “How do you keep them from sticking? Stainless steel’s a nightmare for me.”

She looks at you like you just asked how to boil water. Then she sets the spatula down, wipes her hands on a towel, and gestures for you to come closer.

“Pan hot first,” she says, tapping the pan with the spatula handle. “Very hot. You see?”

She picks up a small glass of water, flicks a few drops into the pan. They dance across the surface, rolling like little marbles before vanishing.

“Like this." She pauses, frowning, then waves her hand. “Dance.”

You blink. “The… dance thing?”

She nods, pleased you got it. “Yes. When water dance," she mimes pouring oil. “add.”

She tilts the pan, swirls the oil, then points at the eggs. “Then no stick.”

You huff a laugh. “That easy, huh?”

She shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “My mãe… she teach first. Before rice. Before bread. Eggs.”

“Makes sense,” you say, watching her fold the eggs in the pan, the edges coming away perfectly clean.

She glances up at you once, quick and shy, then goes back to cooking.

It feels normal. Like a real morning from before. Before everything else happened.

She folds the eggs over one more time, slides them onto a plate, and sets it on the table in front of you with a little flourish.

“Voilà,” she says, like she’s on one of those cooking shows she mentioned.

“Wow,” you say. “You even speak French when you cook. Fancy.”

She smirks. “One word. Is enough.”

Fatty hops up onto the empty chair beside you, like he’s been waiting for his plate.

Mariana side-eyes him. “Greedy,” she says, pointing the spatula at him like it’s a weapon.

“He thinks he’s part of the family,” you say, scratching behind his ears.

She sits across from you, propping her chin on her hand. “He spoiled.”

“Who spoiled him?” you ask, cutting into the eggs.

She tilts her head. “You.”

“Unfair accusation.”

“You feed him bacon,” she says flatly, like it’s irrefutable evidence.

You grin. “Can you blame me? Look at that face.”

Fatty blinks slowly, as if he knows he’s winning.

Mariana sighs and tears a piece of bacon from her plate, holding it just out of reach. “Only little,” she warns him.

He stretches his neck and takes it like a gentleman.

You raise an eyebrow. “See? You’re spoiling him too now.”

She points the spatula at you again. “Your fault.”

You snort. “You’d make a great lawyer.”

She blinks, trying to translate that, then waves her hand dismissively. “No. I cook.”

“Fair,” you say. “But if the cats ever sue me for neglect, I’m calling you to the stand.”

She squints at you, suspicious of the joke, then shakes her head and laughs. It’s light, and easy.

You take a bite of eggs, watching her over the plate. “So,” you say, “what other projects are you planning while you’re busy domesticating my cats and cleaning my house?”

She perks up. “Garden bigger. Vegetables.”

“You’re really committing to this,” you say, leaning back in your chair.

She shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “Is… nice. To do.”

“Good,” you say. “We’ll make it happen.”

She looks at you for a beat, like she’s trying to decide if you’re joking. Then she nods, satisfied, and takes another bite of bacon.

It feels like a promise.