Page 181 of Suite 7

“But I know it.”

“I know it too.”

I reach out and take his hand. Just that. His hand in mine in the kitchen light, the water simmering on the stove behind him, the city carrying on outside.

“I’m choosing this,” I say. “Not because everything is resolved or because the math works out. Because I would make the same choice again. Even knowing what it cost.”

He squeezes my hand once. “Me too.”

He says it simply, the way Kane says the things that matter most — without architecture, without qualification. Just the words. Just him.

We stay like that.

The water on the stove has gone very quiet.

“The pasta,” I say.

“It’s fine.”

“Kane, the water’s⁠—“

“It’s fine.” He doesn’t move. His eyes don’t leave mine. “It can wait.”

I look at him. This man who is standing in his kitchen holding my hand like it’s the one thing he was sure of when everything else was shifting.

“Okay,” I say. “It can wait.”

Later, the pasta turns out slightly overcooked.

We eat it anyway. Knees touching at the kitchen island. The lamp on.

“It’s fine,” I say.

“It’s terrible.”

“It’s fine.”

He looks at me sideways. “You’re being kind.”

“I’m being accurate.” I take another bite. “It’s fine. Some things don’t have to be perfect to be what they are.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

Then, so quietly I almost miss it: “No. They don’t.”

I reach under the island and find his knee. His hand covers mine without looking.

We finish dinner in a silence that doesn’t need anything from either of us.

Gerald sits on his shelf above the bar cart, small and stubborn and indifferent, the same as always.

I look at him on the way to the sink.

He looks back.

Behind me, Kane sets his fork down. The lamp makes everything warm.

Still here, he says, in the way cacti have of saying things.