Page 56 of Chasing Kit

When the episode ended, we just sat there for a minute, not moving to change the channel or talk. My heart felt lighter than it had in weeks. I tried to memorize the feeling and how easy it was. I was safe, like nothing bad could touch me inside the perimeter of this tiny home. This space had a comfort I’d never quite felt, and I loved the feeling enough that I didn’t want to let it go.

“Thanks.” I meant it. “For letting me be here.”

He turned his head toward me, gaze soft but steady. “You don’t have to thank me.” The words came out low, almost gentle. “This is the least I can do.”

I wanted to lean over and touch him or maybe just rest my head on his shoulder, but my body wouldn’t move. Did he want to touch me, too? We were together, right? We could hold hands and cuddle.

I must’ve spaced out because the next thing I knew, War was peeling the popcorn bowl from my lap and setting it aside. I realized, belatedly, that my head had lolled sideways, almost onto his arm.

“Kit?” he said. “You awake?”

I blinked. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He stared at me, eyebrows pinched like he was trying to solve a very tricky logic puzzle. Then, without a word, he draped a worn fleece blanket over my legs, tucking it around my calves as though I might otherwise float away. He didn’t move back to his own space. Instead, he leaned into the couch, arms crossed, and let out a breath so deep it came from deep in his chest.

His head drooped after a few minutes. I watched him while pretending to watch the TV as Netflix flipped onto the next episode. He looked younger when he slept, the harsh lines of his jaw softening. The old tension in his brow finally unwound. I wondered if he ever got real sleep or if his mind was always running drills, prepping for impact.

Maybe it was the exhaustion or the wave of safety, thick and sweet, that finally knocked me under. I let my eyes close. For the first time in what felt like centuries—but was actually weeks—I drifted off with the TV playing and another person breathing beside me.

I didn’t dream at all.

I woke up to the smell of garlic. Not the distant, burnt-acrylic version you got in cafeterias or cheap takeout, but something lush and almost buttery, like the best kind of restaurant kitchen. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming again, but then my body reminded me I’d spent the early evening half-fused to War on his couch, my arm still folded under his blanket, and my neck at a brutal angle.

The living room was empty. The only sign of life was a dying sunbeam pushing through the gap in the shades and the faint clatter of utensils somewhere behind the wall. I stretched, popping every joint in my spine, then followed the scent into the kitchen.

War was at the stove, his back to me while stirring something in a stainless steel pan. He wore a plain white T-shirt and black sweatpants, the kind that showed off his calves, which were—objectively—outrageous. His hair was combed back and neat. I realized with a start that this was probably the first time I’d seen him like this. He wasn’t in a suit or blood-streaked or armored, he was home. He must have gotten dressed while I slept, and I liked this version of him. He’d chosen to lower his armor and let me see behind it.

He didn’t look up. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” I croaked. “Didn’t mean to conk out on you.”

He shrugged and brushed his fingers through his long blond crew-cut. “You needed it.” He tipped a heap of chopped basil into the pan, then grabbed a jar of tomatoes, twisting the lid with a flick of his wrist. His hands were quick and practiced, but there was nothing frantic in the way he worked. It was with his usual efficiency. Almost meditative.

I watched for a second, then perched on the counter near him. “Didn’t realize you were a chef.”

He snorted. “Not a chef. Just got sick of MREs overseas.”

I racked my mind for the meaning but came up short. I assumed MREs had something to do with the meals they ate while deployed. I grinned. “So, you cook gourmet now to compensate?”

He looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “You ever eat an MRE?”

“What is it?” I asked, now extra curious.

He laughed, the sound threading pleasure through me. I loved it when he was happy. “Meal, ready to eat.”

“Then nope. But I did once have gas station sushi. Maybe that’s comparable?”

He shook his head, but the edge of his mouth twitched. “Not even close.” He pointed at the fridge. “Get the milk, will you?”

I fished out a carton and set it beside him. This all felt very domestic and the idea of being here with him every day as his partner wove through my imagination. The fantasy planted itself into my frontal cortex until I decided that yes, this is what I wanted. He poured just a splash of milk into the sauce, then tasted it from the spoon and nodded, satisfied.

“So.” His hands worked and my mouth watered, but I couldn’t decide if it was the smell of food or him. Maybe both. “Is this the secret to your PTSD support group? Pasta therapy?”

His shoulders stiffened, but then he snorted again, softer this time. It was almost a chuckle. “Something like that. When I got back, I couldn’t handle restaurants. Too many people, too loud. So, I cooked at home instead.”

He moved to the sink and rinsed the spoon, then turned and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Eric used to say I’d open a food truck after I retired.”

I looked at him. “That what you want? To run a food truck?”