Epilogue

The apartment smelled… strange.

I stood motionless in the kitchen doorway, trying to identify the scent.

Something between burnt tomato sauce, overheated cheese, and a faint hint of… plastic.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Lyralda?”

Her voice came immediately from the kitchen.

“Yes?”

“Simple question.”

I stepped closer to the saucepan.

“Can you explain why there’s melted plastic in your sauce?”

She turned toward me, a wooden spoon in her hand.

Her expression was perfectly serious.

“That’s probably a technical detail.”

I looked at the saucepan.

Then at the lid resting on the counter.

Then at the warped piece of spatula beside it.

I crossed my arms.

“You melted... the spatula?”

“I did not melt the utensil.”

She pointed at the saucepan with the spoon.

“It chose to participate actively in the recipe.”

I stared at her for a second.

Then I burst out laughing.

A real laugh.

The kind that arrives before you can think.

She rolled her eyes.

“It’s not funny!”

“Yes, it is.”

I stepped closer to inspect the sauce.

“It’s tragically funny, actually.”

I grabbed a spoon and tasted it.

The grimace arrived immediately.

“My God.”

“Is it bad?”

“There’s plastic in it.”

She sighed.

“I’m trying to learn.”

I set the spoon down.

“You know you live with someone who cooks very well, right?”

“Yes.”

She crossed her arms.

“But I refuse to depend on a man to survive.”

I smiled.

“You already depend on a man to eat. Or frozen meals.”

She frowned.

“Excuse me?”

I pointed at the saucepan.

“If I’m not here, you poison yourself.”

She bumped her shoulder lightly against mine.

“You’re unbearable.”

I shrugged.

“Not as unbearable as your cooking.”

She looked at me.

Then she smiled.

A smile that carried none of the distance it once had.

“That’s true.”

She stepped closer.

Her hands slid around my waist.

“And you smile more now, too.”

I raised an eyebrow slightly.

“That’s your fault.”

“Obviously.”

She rested her forehead against mine.

“You know you changed my life?”

I stayed silent for a second.

Not because I didn’t know what to answer.

Because I took the time to feel the sentence.

The kitchen.

The evening light.

Her breathing against mine.

I murmured:

“You changed mine too.”

Then I added:

“Except I never melted a kitchen utensil.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Then make something. It’s still early.”

I shrugged.

“That works for me.”

I walked toward the oven.

“In that case, we’re having lasagna.”

Life had gone on.

Not in any spectacular way.

Just… normally.

Work had gone on too.

Jade had become herself again: a few teasing remarks, a few jokes, and sometimes we had lunch together.

And that was perfectly fine.

At university, Aïcha and I had found a strange but peaceful distance. We greeted each other, sometimes talked for a bit.

Something had changed.

No resentment.

Maybe friendship.

And then there was Lyralda.

Still direct.

Still impossible.

But different.

Or maybe I was the one who had changed.

With the lasagna in the oven, I turned toward her.

She had climbed onto the kitchen counter.

I stepped closer.

Slipped between her legs.

She wrapped her arms around my neck.

Her eyes shone faintly.

“Eliott.”

“Yes?”

She looked at me as if the answer had always been obvious.

“I love you.”

She lifted one shoulder.

“And I’m not ashamed to say it.”

I looked at her.

Really looked at her.

Those words no longer made me want to run away.

So I simply answered:

“I love you too.”

A small pause.

Then I added softly:

“I love you.”