Swarna's POV –
I crack an egg too hard.
Yolk everywhere.
"Great," I mutter.
"Amazing. World-class chef."
Kanaka hops onto the counter like she owns the place. I raise an eyebrow at her.
"Did you teach her how to do this?" I ask the empty kitchen.
Then I hear it.
Soft steps. Blanket dragging on the floor like a ghost with bad posture.
I turn—and there she is.
Still wrapped up like a burrito. Hair messy. Eyes puffy. Quiet.
But standing.
Present.
She looks at me like she's not sure if she's allowed to be here. Like she might dissolve if I stare too long.
So I don't. I turn back to the stove.
"You okay with scrambled? Because I destroyed the first egg. Emotionally."
No answer.
Then—her voice.
Barely audible.
"…Swarna."
I freeze.
That's the first time she's said it.
My name. Not in reference to Kanaka. Not muttered under her breath.
Just—me.
I glance over my shoulder.
She's not looking at me. She's looking at Kanaka, who's sniffing a spoon like it holds universal truths.
But her voice hangs in the air between us. My name, spoken like a truce.
"Yeah?" I reply, as casually as my suddenly traitorous lungs allow.
She doesn't say anything else.
But she walks closer. Slowly.
Then sits on the floor, next to the fridge. Blanket puddled around her, like she's still hiding—but a little less so.
I slide a plate across the counter toward her.
No big declarations. No thank-you speeches.
Just:
One bite.
A small sigh.
And her whispering, "You didn't burn it."
My chest unclenches.
I grin. "Give me some credit. I only ruin the first one."
Kanaka meows, as if demanding her share of credit too.
Kaha leans her head against the fridge and closes her eyes, chewing slowly.
At peace, for now.
And for the first time in a long time…
So am I.