Page 5 of Salvation

“It’s going,” she muttered, then brightened. “But Dad’s a good teacher.”

Salvation snorted softly at the stove. “Don’t let your actual teachers hear that.”

I watched as he stirred the pot, then bent to check something in the oven. The simple domesticity of it all made my chest ache with longing. For what, I wasn’t entirely sure.

“The trick with these equations,” Salvation continued, straightening up and wiping his hands on a towel tucked into his back pocket, “is not to overcomplicate them. Break them down, one step at a time.”

If only life were that simple, I thought. Break down the complications. Solve for the unknown.

Salvation moved to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of water. His T-shirt rode up slightly, revealing a strip of tanned skin above his jeans. I swallowed hard and forced my gaze back to the table.

“Dad, can you check this one?” Clover pushed her notebook across the table.

Salvation set his water down and leaned over her shoulder, one hand braced on the table. His proximity made my skin prickle with awareness. He smelled like spices and something uniquely him -- clean sweat and soap.

“You dropped a negative here,” he said, pointing. “Try again.”

Clover groaned but bent back over her work. Salvation returned to the stove, stirring the contents of the pot before adding another handful of chopped herbs.

I realized I’d been staring again when Clover’s foot nudged mine under the table. I blinked, meeting her gaze. Her eyes darted meaningfully between me and Salvation, one eyebrow raised in a question I didn’t want to answer. Heat crept up my neck. I shook my head slightly, a silent plea for her to drop it.

Instead, she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If you don’t make a move, nothing will ever change.”

My mouth fell open. I snapped it shut, mortified. “I don’t --” I started, but the words died in my throat as Salvation glanced over, his expression curious.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” I managed, my voice unnaturally high. “Just… math. Complicated.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes lingering on my flushed face before turning back to his cooking.

Clover smirked. I kicked her gently under the table but couldn’t quite summon any real annoyance. Instead, a bubble of nervous laughter threatened to escape me. This girl, with her too-wise eyes and matter-of-fact statements, had somehow become important to me in the years since I’d arrived. “It’s true,” she mouthed silently, nodding toward Salvation’s back.

I ducked my head, letting my hair fall forward to hide my burning cheeks. Maybe it was true. Maybe I did need to make a move. But the thought alone was terrifying -- more frightening, somehow, than the blade I’d once held to my wrist.

Because this time, I had something to lose.

Clover closed her textbook with a decisive snap, shooting me one last knowing look before gathering her papers. “I should put these away. And finish that reading for English. I’ll come fix my plate when I’m finished, so don’t wait for me.”

I recognized the excuse for what it was -- a deliberate exit, leaving Salvation and me alone. My heart jumped into my throat. I wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. Not with her words still humming in my ears.

“Don’t forget we need to leave early tomorrow,” Salvation reminded her, not looking up from the pot he was stirring. “Doctor’s appointment before school.”

Clover rolled her eyes. “Like I could forget. You’ve reminded me three times today.”

“Make it four,” he replied, a smile in his voice.

She huffed dramatically but grinned as she tucked her books under her arm. “Night, Dad.” She paused at the doorway, looking back at me. “Night, Yulia.”

“Goodnight,” I managed. Her footsteps faded down the hallway, each one taking my courage with it. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker.

I sat frozen at the table, hyperaware of every sound -- the bubbling of the pot and even Salvation’s steady breathing. He moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, seemingly oblivious to my presence. Or perhaps just accustomed to it. After all, this was our routine most nights. He cooked. I watched. We ate. We existed in the same space without really occupying it together.

My fingers picked at a loose thread on my sleeve. We’d been married for about eleven years now -- on paper only, as he’d promised that first night. A marriage of protection, nothing more. He’d given me safety, stability. A home. But in moments like this, with just the two of us, I couldn’t help but wonder if there could be more.

Salvation opened the oven, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. The muscles in his back flexed as he bent to check whatever was roasting inside. My mouth went dry.

“Looks good,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.

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