Chapter 163: The Coffee She Makes Anyway

Chapter 163: Chapter 163: The Coffee She Makes Anyway

The penthouse had gone quiet by the time Penelope made her way to Killian’s door, the rest of the family settled into the particular subdued rhythm that followed a hard day — Aunt Mary tucking Aurora in for the night, Kai and Ben watching something on a battery-powered tablet in low, murmured tones, Erik retreating to his room earlier than usual, still carrying the weight of the lobby with him even after hours had passed.

Penelope knocked twice.

The door opened a moment later, Killian still dressed from earlier, sleeves rolled to the forearm, looking as tired as she felt.

"Your share," she said, stepping past him into the small living room, and with a simple thought, his portion of the day’s haul settled onto the counter — a fuel canister, a stack of batteries, and a first aid kit Ben had insisted he needed specifically, though Penelope suspected that was just his way of telling Killian to be more careful.

Killian glanced at the small pile, then back at her. "Tell him I appreciate the concern, even if I don’t need it."

"You definitely need it. You manipulate atoms for a living and somehow still come home with bruises every other day."

"Occupational hazard."

"Sure it is." Penelope lingered near the counter, not quite ready to head back to her own apartment.

She’s not leaving, Ziki observed, unprompted, somewhere in the quiet privacy of Killian’s own head. Interesting.

I noticed, Killian answered.

I meant that she looks well tonight, despite everything. A pause, faintly smug. Objectively.

Objectively, Killian repeated dryly.

You don’t disagree.

He didn’t, though he had no intention of confirming it out loud to a disembodied administrator with entirely too much interest in his personal affairs.

"You don’t have to rush back," he said instead.

"I wasn’t planning to."

"Coffee?" he offered. "Still have some left. Real coffee, not the instant kind we’ve been rationing."

Penelope raised an eyebrow, some of the day’s heaviness easing at the small, ordinary normalcy of the offer. "You’re offering me coffee."

"I am."

"Killian." She crossed her arms, mock-serious. "Do you actually know how to make coffee, or are you just going to hand me the grounds and gesture vaguely at the stove?"

His mouth twitched. "I know how to make coffee."

"You say that with the confidence of a man who’s never actually made a cup in his life."

"I ran a company, Penelope. I’ve made coffee."

"For yourself, maybe. In a machine that did most of the actual work." She was already moving past him toward the small kitchen. "Sit down. I’ll make it properly."

"I offered to make it."

"You offered to hand me an idea of coffee. There’s a difference."

She’s very confident for someone about to use a camp stove, Ziki noted.

Watch, Killian thought back, settling into the chair, unable to keep a small measure of anticipation entirely out of the thought. She’ll manage it fine.

You seem certain.

I’ve watched her manage worse with less.

Penelope found the small camping stove, along with the kettle and the carefully rationed grounds Killian had apparently been hoarding for exactly an occasion like this one. "This is going to end up being my coffee that you offered, isn’t it."

"Only if you insist on doing it yourself."

"I’m insisting." She measured the grounds with practiced efficiency, old habits from another life surfacing easily. "For the record, this is a very generous offer that somehow requires zero effort from the person who made it."

"I opened the cabinet."

"Herculean effort."

She’s teasing you, Ziki observed, entirely unnecessary.

I’m aware.

You like it.

Also aware.

Killian watched her work, something quieter and warmer than his usual composed stillness settling over his expression, though he made no effort to name it, even privately. It was simply easy, sitting here, watching her hands move with careful attention over an old kettle, listening to her needle him for an offer he’d genuinely meant as generosity and which she’d somehow turned into an accusation of laziness within thirty seconds. He couldn’t remember the last time something had felt this uncomplicated.

"You’re better at this than I expected," he said.

"Making coffee?"

"Pretending today didn’t happen." His voice softened slightly. "For a few minutes, at least."

Penelope’s hands stilled briefly over the kettle. "I’m not pretending it didn’t happen. I’m just choosing not to think about it right now."

"Fair distinction."

"I keep hearing her," Penelope admitted, quieter now, pouring the water over the grounds. "The woman. Calling us monsters. I keep telling myself she was wrong, and some part of me isn’t sure I believe it."

She carries too much, Ziki said quietly, an unusual softness threading through the observation. You should tell her that.

She wouldn’t believe me if I did.

Try anyway.

"You didn’t hesitate today," Killian said aloud. "None of us did. Does that scare you?"

"Yes." She set the kettle down, turning to face him fully. "It scares me that it didn’t feel like a choice. And I don’t know when exactly that started applying to actual people too."

"The moment they raised a weapon at you," Killian said, simply. "That’s when it applies. Not before."

The coffee finished steeping, and Penelope poured two cups, crossing to set one in front of him before settling into the chair across the small table.

"To be fair," she said, wrapping both hands around her own cup, "I did make this. You just supervised."

"I provided excellent supervision."

"You sat there."

"Skillfully."

Penelope laughed, quiet and genuine, and Killian felt something in his chest ease at the sound in a way that had nothing to do with the coffee at all.

There it is, Ziki said. That laugh. You should hear yourself think whenever she does that.

I don’t need a running commentary on my own thoughts.

Someone should provide one. You certainly won’t.

Killian ignored him, watching Penelope instead as she took her first sip, wincing slightly at the bitterness before determinedly taking another.

"Not bad," she said, "considering the equipment."

"High praise."

"Don’t get used to it."

You like when she insults your equipment, Ziki observed. That is, objectively, a strange thing to enjoy.

Everything about tonight is strange, Killian admitted silently. I’m choosing not to examine it too closely.

Wise. For once.

They fell into easy, meandering conversation after that — nothing that mattered particularly, nothing either of them would remember clearly by morning, just the comfortable, unhurried rhythm of two people who’d stopped needing to fill every silence with something significant. Penelope teased him about his coffee-making credentials twice more. Killian countered, dryly, that her sword-fighting technique could use similar scrutiny, which earned him an offended noise entirely disproportionate to the joke.

It was, without either of them naming it, one of the easier hours either of them had spent in days.

Penelope was midway through describing, with considerable embellishment, the exact face Kai had made during their earlier boat encounter, when a sudden, sharp jolt of sensation cut through her — not pain, exactly, more like a held breath finally releasing.

She went still.

Oddy?

Silence, for one terrible half-second that felt endless.

Then, faint, static-thin, but unmistakably there —

Host.

Penelope’s cup nearly slipped from her hand.

"Penelope?" Killian’s voice sharpened instantly, reading the shift in her expression. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing’s wrong," she said, breath catching, something between shock and overwhelming relief breaking across her face all at once. "I just — I need to check something. It’s fine, I promise."

Killian studied her for a moment, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to push. "You went pale."

"Good news, actually. Just startled me." She managed something close to a genuine smile, setting her cup down with hands that weren’t quite steady. "I should let you get some rest. Thank you for the coffee. Or, the supervision of the coffee."

"Anytime," he said, though his eyes lingered on her a moment longer, some quiet concern still sitting behind the words. "Thank you for the company." He said.

"Thank you for the coffee." Penny smiled and excused herself quickly after that, already half-focused inward the moment she stepped back into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind her.

Oddy. You’re really back.

I am back, Oddy confirmed, his voice thinner than she remembered, careful in a way that suggested whatever he’d been through hadn’t left him entirely unscathed. I apologize for the delay, Host. It was not within my control.

I know, Penelope thought, pressing a hand briefly against the wall to steady herself, relief washing through her chest in a way that left her almost lightheaded. I know, Oddy. Welcome back.

I have much to tell you, Oddy said quietly, and much I am still not permitted to explain. But I am here now, Host. I did not leave you by choice.

Penelope closed her eyes for a moment, letting the weight of weeks finally begin to lift, if only slightly.

Then let’s start with whatever you can tell me, she thought. We have a lot to catch up on.