Author's Note:
Domestic quiet doesn't always mean safety.
This chapter slows down—but pay attention.
Because sometimes, the scariest people are the ones whose mothers complain about breach timing.
And sometimes, love sounds like: "Alright."
The morning after the rooftop.
The scent of tempered spices and warm oil filled the apartment. The kind of smell that lingered in fabric and memory.
Niv stirred on the couch, blinking against sunlight that had crept across the floor while he slept.
He didn't move at first. He could hear her—quiet steps, a pan shifting, a soft hum under her breath. Not quite a tune. Just rhythm and breath and motion.
He rose slowly, hoodie slipping down his arm, and walked toward the kitchen.
Sera was barefoot, hair tied up, one of his hoodies hanging off one shoulder. A pan hissed under her hand. Toast popped behind her. Chai steamed in two mugs.
"Smells dangerous," he murmured.
"You skipped dinner again," she replied, not turning. "That's an arrestable offense when I'm around."
He leaned against the doorway.
"Actually, I didn't. Ishaan called. Asked what happened. Said since my dinner got ruined by mercs, he'd send pizza."
Sera turned her head slightly, one eyebrow raised.
"He sent pizza?"
"Yeah. Jaime and I split it."
She blinked.
"Wait. You and Jaime sat around eating pizza after—"
"He needed calories. And I was too wired to sleep."
Sera paused, then turned the stove off and plated the eggs.
"Your family's kind of… chill about this."
"They're pissed, actually."
"Because you were attacked?"
"No." He took the plate she offered. "Because I finally started dating. Going out. Not just studying, gaming, hanging out with Ethan. And then this shit happened."
He said it without bite. Almost like quoting someone else.
Sera blinked again.
"They were mad… about that?"
He nodded.
"My mom said, 'We shouldn't have listened to you and let the force be so far away. If they'd come in one minute instead of three, maybe you would've still had time to enjoy your night out with your girlfriend.'"
Sera didn't say anything.
Not right away.
She just stood there for a moment, spatula still in hand, watching him sit down at the table like it was a regular morning.
Like he hadn't killed eight men on a rooftop.
Like his mother hadn't timed the strike team's breach window down to the second.
And then complained about it.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, something tightened.
Not fear. Not confusion.
Just the realization:
What kind of things must they have lived through… to make this sound like a minor inconvenience?
She plated the rest of breakfast and joined him, curling up on the bench beside him, shoulder against his.
He took a bite—spiced, perfect, familiar now.
"You feed me a lot," he said quietly.
"You make it necessary."
He smiled a little.
"You sound like my mom."
Sera smirked.
"Then she has good taste."
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
After a while, she asked,
"You free the next two weeks?"
He nodded between bites.
"No classes. All submitted. Just study break."
"I'm going to Mexico," she said.
"I want you to come."
He looked at her.
Didn't ask why. Didn't hesitate.
"Alright."
She reached across the table and rested her hand over his.
But in the back of her mind, a thought lingered—sharp and cold beneath the warmth:
There are people watching this boy.
There are people who move for him.
And if they're this calm about an ambush…
what happens when they're not?