Page 195 of Celestial Combat

None of it aimed at me.

All of it turned inward.

A slow breath left me. I pulled on my gloves and coat, and wrapped a scarf around my neck before stepping into the cold.

The air hit like glass – sharp and crisp and almost unreal. Snow crunched under my boots as I made my way toward him, the tea cupped carefully between my palms, still boiling, though not for long now.

He noticed me before I said a word. The axe paused mid-air, lowered to his side. His expression didn’t shift much, but I saw the flicker in his eyes.

Wordless, I held out the mug.

He stared at it for a moment, like he wasn’t sure he deserved it. Then, slowly, he took it from my hands, brushing my gloved fingers with his probably freezing ones in the exchange. The scarf slipped slightly from my neck in the wind, but I didn’t fix it.

We sat in silence on a nearby fallen tree. He drank. The quiet between us didn’t feel strained anymore.

When he was done, he handed the cup back and picked up the logs he’d split. Without another word, we turned toward the cabin, snow muffling our steps.

Warm golden light spilled across the kitchen countertops, casting soft shadows on the stone and wood. The scent of garlic, thyme, and slow-simmering broth thickened the air, familiar and comforting – like home, or something pretending to be.

I stood at the butcher’s block, rhythmically chopping herbs, the steady thud of the knife grounding me. Each motion deliberate. Basil, parsley, rosemary – sharp, fragrant oils releasing with every slice. My hands moved on their own. I didn’t need to think. It was muscle memory.

Across from me, Zane stood at the sink, his shoulders broad and quiet. He was gutting and cleaning the fish he’d defrosted from the freezer.

His movements were efficient, practiced.

The way he worked with a blade was always methodical. Clean. No wasted energy.

Low music spun from the corner, some old record he’d found tucked away in the cabin’s shelf. Faint jazz, soft piano notes melting into the warmth of the kitchen. The kind of music that might’ve made this feel romantic, once.

But there was a distance now. Not in space – we moved around each other like we always had, instinctive in our choreography – but in energy. Like the silence between us had weight. Like every unspoken word was another log on the fire.

The stew simmered. Zane wiped his hands clean. I sprinkled herbs into the pot and stirred, steam rising up to kiss my face.

Still no words.

Just the scent of cooking, the hum of vinyl, the flicker of firelight reflecting off the windows, and the two of us moving beside each other in perfect, aching quiet.

I noticed Zane at my side, and when I looked up – a soft brush of his fingers against my cheek.

A leaf of parsley.

My breath caught, chest tightening beneath the weight of his nearness. The heat of the stove couldn’t compare to the warmth that bloomed inside me from his touch. Two days of silence – of space and sharp edges and trying not to look at him for too long – shrank into this one fragile second.

I leaned into his touch before I could stop myself. Just a fraction. Just enough to say I missed him without saying anything at all.

His hand lingered – warm, strong,masculineagainst my cheek.

We were so close I could see the strain around his eyes, the guilt carved into the furrow between his brows.

But when I met his gaze, something softer was there. Something that cracked the walls I’d been rebuilding around myself.

I looked down.

I couldn’t help it. The moment stretched and I broke it first, gaze dropping to the floor like I could find the answer written in the wood grain.

His other hand came up, gentle but firm, tilting my face back to his. He held me like I was something fragile but real – like I hadn’t run away from him emotionally, like I wasn’t still halfway there.

“Kali…” he said softly. “It’s me.”