Page 86 of Honeyfires

"I'm fine," he said. "I'm completely fine."

"He's not fine," Jackson said.

"I'm fine." Stevens pocketed his phone and straightened his shoulders. "Back to work."

He walked away with considerable dignity on his expression. I watched him go and thought about the woman at home in our apartment who sent personalized encouragement to my rookie firefighter about cookie technique.

"She's something else," Jackson said, not for the first time.

"She's everything," I said, and meant it the same way I'd meant it to Amber at the bakery, and would mean it every time I said it for the rest of my life.

That night, after dinner and the biscuits and a shower we both needed, Vera curled against my side in our bed with her hand over Lucas and Santi's initials, the way she always did.

"Jackson's right," she said. "About the domestication."

"I know."

"It's wonderful." She tilted her face up. "You're still you. Terrifying when necessary. Completely capable of carrying things that should require two people. Deeply wrong about folding towels."

"I'm not wrong about the towels, I have a method—"

"My method is also a method. It's just a different method."

"Your method is decorative."

"Functionality and aesthetics are not mutually exclusive, Petra."

"The towels are for drying. They don't need to be attractive."

"Everything benefits from intention," she said. "Even towels."

I looked at her. This woman who had appeared in a hallway and upended everything I thought I knew about what I needed, what I wanted, what home felt like.

"You're going to win the towel thing," I said.

"I'm already winning the towel thing."

"I know." I pulled her closer. "I let you."

She made an outraged sound. "You—"

"I let you win it the second time. The first time I genuinely forgot which fold was mine."

She hit my shoulder gently. I laughed. She laughed. Outside, the desert was dark and vast and ancient, the way it always was.

"Lucas and Santi would have liked you," I said, after a while.

She stilled, then pressed her lips to the tattoo. "Tell me something about them. Something good."

I thought about it. "Johnson could not drive. Couldn't parallel park to save his life. We'd been in a combat zone for seven months, and he still drove like he'd just gotten his permit. We used to argue about who had to be in the vehicle with him."

Vera laughed softly. "And Santi?"

"Ramirez could cook. Better than me, actually. He'd find ingredients in places that shouldn't have had ingredients and make something out of nothing." I paused. "He would have loved meeting you. He loved people who could do things with their hands. He would have asked you about the sewing."

"I wish I'd gotten to tell him about it."

"Me too." I kissed her forehead. "Go to sleep."