“You are something special,” T’mari said almost two hours later, standing in the quiet kitchen with Matt. The house had gone still around them, the rain outside easing into a steady patter. She dried while he washed, the rhythm as practiced as if they had done it for years.
“It is a minor talent,” he replied, handing her a plate with one hand and reaching for the towel with the other. The next moment, the plate slipped from her fingers. It shattered against the tile, the sharp sound cutting through the calm.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasped, wincing as if the shards had cut her.
“Don’t be.” He crouched, picking up the three largest pieces and dropping them into the bin before reaching for the broom and dustpan. His voice was even, unbothered.
“But you told me every piece of Raku was unique,” she insisted. “That they couldn’t be duplicated. These are things of rare beauty, solitary in the world.”
“They are,” he admitted. “Truth, they are. But not so much for the last two.” He crossed the kitchen and opened a closet door she had never noticed.
Her breath caught. Shelf upon shelf revealed itself, lined with Raku plates and bowls, each with its own glaze, each fractured in a different way by the fire. Hundreds of them, stacked and gleaming dully in the low light.
“If you break all those,” Matt said with a shrug, “it just gives me a reason to make some more. I’ve probably broken twice as many as I have in there.”
“You… you’ve been making these all this time?” she stammered. She almost dropped the dish in her hands again, clutching it tighter as if it might test her.
“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer, taking it from her before she had to sweep it off the floor. “I learned Raku trying to impress Angelina when we were teenagers. She gave it up, but I found it relaxing. Fire, clay, a little patience—you learn how to let go of what you can’t control. I’ll teach you if you like.”
She trailed her fingers along the edge of a bowl, as if it might tell her something of the boy he had been and the man she now leaned on.
“Someone has been busy,” Matt said with a raised eyebrow as they finally left the kitchen. He nudged open the bedroom door and stopped short. “I guess red is the new color palette?”
“I had Angelina take pictures of what you had,” she explained quickly, “then I fed them into your AI and told it to pick the furthest thing from those choices. I think it might have been a mistake.”
“We can work on it later,” he said with a small smile. “At least the towels will be new and fluffy.” He shut the door behind them, pulling off his belt as he walked toward the bathroom.
“You really don’t like the colors, do you?” T’mari asked as she eased onto the bed.
“No. Do you?” he asked, not unkindly, thinking of the clashing reds, pinks, and mold greens that had been his mother’s last decorating spree.
“It is hideous,” she admitted, slipping closer into his arms. “But you were right—the towels are nice and fluffy.”
She pressed against him, the warmth of the day closing around them like the house itself exhaling. For the first time in days, Matt let the weight in his shoulders fall all the way, content to share silence with her in a room he would learn to love again, one color at a time.
Her breath stirred against his chest. “You cook, you make pottery, you wash dishes better than I do… is there anything you don’t do?”
“Plenty,” he said dryly. “But I’m not going to tell you what, or you’ll find a way to make me start.”
She laughed softly, a sound muffled by the blankets. It carried more relief than amusement, like laughter after a storm.
“Tomorrow will be busy,” Matt said finally, voice low. “But tonight—this is enough.”
Rain drummed steady against the roof, and thunder rolled faintly to the east. The house creaked and settled around them, holding the memory of generations. He thought of broken dishes turned into art, of deer turned into dinner, of wine bottles opened and emptied with new family.
T’mari closed her eyes, listening as his heartbeat slowed under her cheek. “Enough,” she echoed, and for once, she did not mean it as a compromise but as completion.
