Page 31 of Beautiful Ruins
She laughed, the sound easy and genuine, and stood, extending a hand.“Come on.Let’s go have coffee.You can tell me all about how you met my brother.”
In the kitchen, Tone moved like she belonged there.Because obviously, she did.Which was more than I could say for myself.
“When you suggested coffee, I thought you meantout.Not in your brother’s heavily guarded kitchen.”
She grinned.“Baby steps.”
She filled the kettle and pulled mugs from a cabinet like she’d lived in the house her entire life—which, to be fair, she probably had at some point.There was no hesitation, no checking labels.She knew where everything was.
“Milk?Sugar?”she asked, already halfway to the fridge.
I eyed the gleaming monstrosity of a coffee machine built into the counter.It looked like it could launch a satellite.“Why aren’t you using the coffee machine?”I asked, suspicion in my voice.
Tone glanced at it, then back at me.“Because none of us ever mastered it,” she confessed meekly.
I blinked.“None of you?”
“Raze tried once,” she revealed.“It screamed.He unplugged it.We’ve all agreed it’s haunted.”
I stared at the machine again.Honestly?I believed her.
“Move over.”I stepped up to the machine.“I’m the barista in this room.I’ll make it.”
She snorted, hands lifting in surrender.“I like you.”
I took my time.There was something grounding about the ritual—measuring, tamping, listening to the familiar hiss and pressure.Muscle memory kicked in, and for a moment, I wasn’t a guest or a prisoner or a question mark.I was just doing a job I knew how to do.
I slid a mug toward her when I was done.She leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely, watching me with open curiosity now.Not invasive.Just… attentive.Like she was piecing something together and enjoying the process.
I didn’t miss the way her gaze flicked to my clothes, then to my hands, then back to my face.Like she was cataloguing me for later.
“So, tell me about art school.”
I nodded.“Yes.Well, apparently I’m committed to living the life of a poor person.Contrary to popular belief, art does not, in fact, pay the rent.”
Her mouth twitched.“Ah.A romantic.”
“Deeply delusional,” I agreed.“With student debt.”
She laughed, took a sip of her coffee, and paused.“Okay.”She sounded impressed.“That’s actually good.”
“Thank you.I trained for years to achieve that level of validation.”
“So you’re a barista by necessity.”
“By survival,” I corrected.
She nodded solemnly.“Respect.”
We stood there for a moment, sipping coffee in a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a magazine I couldn’t afford.The normalcy of it all felt surreal—two women chatting over caffeine, like this wasn’t a house built for secrets and power and violence.
“You don’t strike me as reckless,” Tone said suddenly.
I glanced at her.“I fell for the wrong man and ended up here.”
She smiled knowingly.“Okay.You don’t strike me asintentionallyreckless.”
“Much better.”
