“Fornaskr? Shika? Has anyone— you, there, did you see them come through?

  Please, look at me. When did you last— why are you all just… standing like that?

  Fornaskr! Shika! Answer me!

  …Why are you smiling and nodding? That’s not an answer. What happened to this place?"

  H0L1Y

  Holly plated dinner with the kind of focus she usually reserved for marketing strategies or packing for a trip. She’d seared the chicken on the stovetop and finished it in the oven with garlic and lemon. Buttered green beans gleamed in a shallow bowl. The mashed potatoes were almost silky. You could pull a spoon through, and it would leave little waves that held their shape. Steam curled up and filled the apartment with warmth and salt and rosemary.

  Heather had claimed her usual spot at the table—chair angled, shoulders loose, hair caught in a loose bun that couldn’t be bothered to contain the red curls. She watched Holly bustle with an indulgent, hungry patience, hands folded, cheeks already pink from the heat of the kitchen.

  “You’re fussing,” Heather said, amusement on her face. “You’re doing the thing where you fuss.”

  “I’m plating,” Holly said, which was technically true, but she straightened a parsley sprig anyway and wiped an invisible smear from the rim. “There. Perfect.”

  Heather tipped her head. “Perfect, huh? Guess there’s only one way to test that.”

  Holly brought the plates over and set one in front of Heather, then paused, considering, and slid into the chair next to her instead of across. “Okay,” she said, a little breathless with the tiny decision. “Open up.”

  Heather’s grin widened immediately. “Oh, we’re doing that tonight.”

  “Only if you want to,” Holly said, suddenly shy.

  “Please,” Heather murmured, the word soft as a blanket. “Feed me.”

  Holly cut a bite of chicken and held it out. Heather leaned forward, took it, closed her eyes while she chewed. When she opened them again there was a slow delight there that Holly felt all the way down to her toes.

  “Good?” Holly asked.

  “Unfair,” Heather said. “You’ve made it impossible to be normal about dinner ever again.”

  Holly snorted and offered another bite, then a forkful of potatoes. The rhythm found them with the same effortless energy the way a good song does. Heather’s voice stayed light, teasing, but there was a gratitude under it Holly could feel more than hear. Between bites, they drifted through easy conversation.

  “Work was a mess,” Holly said, turning the fork to gather green beans. “Our build pipeline decided to eat half the assets and spit out static.”

  “Rude of it,” Heather said solemnly, then opened for the beans. “What’s your fix?”

  “Appease it with offerings. Sacrifices. A coffee to the deployment gods.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Make it two. And a brownie tithe.”

  “Not the brownies,” Holly said, aghast, and Heather laughed so hard she snorted.

  They wandered to other topics: neighbors putting up early lights, a podcast episode Heather swore would make Holly cry, the way the first cold snap always made the city smell like pennies. Holly fed Heather small, careful bites, checking in with a glance before each one. Heather, for her part, leaned into the ritual, grateful and greedy in all the best ways.

  “More?” Holly asked.

  Heather’s answering hum curled into a yes. “Just a little,” she said, and then, a minute later, “Okay, more.” She was gently shameless about it, not pushing, just inviting; Holly found herself smiling every time she agreed.

  “And how was your day?” Holly asked.

  “Heroic,” Heather said. “I faced the laundry beast. It remains undefeated.”

  “Tragic.” Holly fed her another bite. “We’ll hold a memorial.”

  “We can scatter dryer sheets at sunset.”

  They dissolved into soft snorts of laughter. The apartment felt round and whole and easy, the way it did on the best evenings.

  Holly reached for the water glasses and out of the corner of her eye she saw something odd. The standing lamp in the corner flickered. Not the ordinary nervous blink of a cheap bulb. It went out and on so fast it seemed to disappear, like a frame dropped between two others. For half a breath, Holly saw nothing where it stood. The bare emptiness of that corner pulled at her in a way that made her stomach flip.

  She blinked. The lamp was back. Steady. The room was normal.

  “Holly?” Heather’s voice was close and quiet. She’d reached up to touch Holly’s cheek with the back of her knuckles. The warmth of her hand slid Holly’s focus back into place like a puzzle piece.

  “Sorry,” Holly said, swallowing. “Zoned out.” The weird little prickling at the base of her skull eased. She couldn’t quite remember why she’d stopped, only that she’d meant to do something and then Heather had looked at her like that, and it had felt foolish to be anywhere but here.

  “Stay with me,” Heather said gently. It was teasing, but there was something else beneath it. “I’m not done being spoiled.”

  “You never are,” Holly said, relieved to hear the usual cadence slip back into her voice. She speared another bite and offered it. “Open.”

  Heather obeyed with theatrical grace. “Chef,” she said around the mouthful, then after chewing, “You know what I was thinking about? That winter you tried to knit and made a scarf that was just… one very long knot.”

  Holly groaned. “It was abstract.”

  “It was a weapon.”

  “You wore it.”

  “Because I love you,” Heather said, simple and unshowy, the way she always said it. The kind of truth that snugged into place and held.

  Holly’s chest went warm. “I love you too.” She offered another bite, and another. The plates slowly emptied. The conversation drifted from knitting atrocities to a ridiculous article headline, to the neighborhood cat who had adopted their stoop and refused to leave. The lamp glowed steady in the corner. The room smelled like lemon and pepper and the faint sugar-ghost of last night’s brownies.

  “Last one?” Holly asked, tilting the fork as if she might change her mind and eat it herself.

  Heather widened her eyes. “Mercy.”

  Holly fed it to her, then leaned back, satisfied, weirdly proud. Heather settled into the chair, hands resting over her stomach, pleased in the deep, uncomplicated way that always made Holly want to sing or dance or build something stupid just to see that look again.

  They lingered there for a long time, talking about nothing and everything—the smallness that makes up a life: a list of films to catch up on, whether the thrift store would have a coat Holly might actually like, if they should try that new diner with the wonky neon sign. Every now and then Heather would tip her head and ask for water or a tiny extra bite of potatoes, and Holly would oblige, happy to. The lamp stayed solid. The world felt glued together.

  When they finally rose, the table smelled like lemon rinds and steam, the plates streaked with the last of the gravy. Heather nudged Holly with her hip and kissed her forehead, casual as breathing. “Thank you, chef,” she said.

  “Anytime,” Holly said, and meant it.

  They cleaned the kitchen slowly, talking about nothing important. If something about the room had gone wrong earlier, it was gone now, tucked behind the kind, heavy ordinary of the evening. Holly dried the last plate and turned the lamp a little, just to make sure it was stable.

  It was. Of course it was. She couldn’t imagine it otherwise.