Page 147 of Celestial Combat

“Definitely the steak,” I lied, lifting a spoon to taste the sauce. “Okay, maybe a little of both.”

He chuckled, deep and lazy, and adjusted the pan. “It’s kinda unfair how good you look with mushroom sauce on your cheek.”

“What?” My eyes widened.

He came over, warm from the stove, his fingers brushing my face to wipe it away. I froze for a second, heart thudding a little too loud for such a quiet moment. The loft felt too still suddenly – like the air was holding its breath with me.

“You’re staring,” I said softly, trying to keep the moment light.

“I’ll always stare at you,” he muttered, stepping back to the steak.

I turned back to the sauce, stirring slowly, trying not to smile.

“What are we watching tonight again?”

“I was thinkingScarface.”

Zane plated the steaks. “Good choice.”

I laughed, pouring the sauce into a bowl. “The Cuban in me is screaming for a rewatch.”

“Deal,” he said, setting the plates on the kitchen island. “But just so you know, after we’re done with dinner, I’m keeping my arm around you the whole night.”

I smiled so hard, my cheeks ached.“Deal.”

He winked and picked out the cutlery.

The lights in the kitchen glowed a soft amber, casting a halo over our dinner that we made together.

“I’ll go get the movie set up!” I announced, rushing to the couch and plopping down to use the remote.

“Alright. I’ll bring the food.”

Five minutes later, the opening credits of Scarface played while Zane and I sat on the rug in front of the couch, eating at the coffee table.

We sat cross-legged, dinner plates perched between us on the low table. Scarface played on the TV, the screen casting pale gold and blue flickers over the loft’s moody, amber-lit interior. The steak we made was still warm – Zane had cooked it to perfection – and the mushroom sauce I’d made clung to the roasted vegetables.

I didn’t touch my food at first. The opening scene. The boatlift. The chaos. Freedom Town, fenced-in and loud with desperation. I saw it, but I also knew it – I had lived with that history since I was old enough to understand that survival doesn’t always look noble.

“My grandfather came through there,” I said softly.

Zane turned to me. He wasn’t eating either. He looked at me fully, like my words meant something. “Through Freedom Town?”

I nodded. “He came from Havana with nothing but the clothes on his back. No English. No plan. Just a bullet scar on his shoulder and a talent for solving problems people couldn’t afford to have.”

Zane’s eyes flicked back to the screen, then back to me. “Is that where it started?”

“The business on my mom’s side of the family?” I smirked faintly. “Yeah. Her father.”

“And he built everything your mom’s family has now?”

“He learned how to barter in weapons before he learned to speak fluent English. My mom took that legacy global. Cuba,Miami, West Europe. Then she met my father, who controlled the East. And now we’re everywhere.”

The movie played on, Al Pacino spitting out lines in that thick Cuban accent, talking about what it takes to rise. It felt... Familiar.

Zane picked up his chopsticks again, slowly. “So you’re not just the pretty face of the family.”

I laughed, batting my eyelashes. “You think I’m pretty?”

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