#109: Fallen: Fire and Redemption - Tofu Poisoned and Pineapple Shirt

***Violet***

Julian was sleeping on his side, face smashed into the pillow, and messy hair falling over part of his forehead. The sheet had slipped down to his waist, revealing the tattoo on his shoulder and the thin scar on his rib — the one he never says how he got. I know every inch of that body — the marks, the absences, the silences. But there, in that moment, he just looked like… a guy who had a full night’s sleep. A man building a life with me. In our home.

Our home.

The idea still felt surreal. We signed the papers, moved the boxes, slept on the old mattress thrown on the floor of a bedroom that still smelled like paint — but nothing felt as real as seeing him sleeping there, in the middle of the mess, breathing like nothing in the world could break that moment.

I got up slowly, trying not to make a sound. I walked barefoot down the wooden stairs that creaked in three different places. I counted. I went to the kitchen on a heroic mission to make coffee, in that new-old pans that we get, was a risky task.

The boxes were still stacked in a corner. The cabinets, almost empty. But the smell of new wood mixed with the faint scent of instant coffee gave the place a sense of home that brought a lump to my throat.

That’s when I saw the envelope on the counter.

I opened it slowly. Inside the house contract. Signed. In his handwriting, crooked, slanted to the left, stubborn like its owner. In the corner, a note scribbled in red pen:

"If it all goes to hell, we sell everything and buy a trailer. I love you."

I laughed to myself. Of course, he would leave something stupid like that on the most important paper of our lives.

But it wasn’t just a joke. It was confirmation that he was here. With me. That Julian didn’t run away. That he chose to stay.

I took a deep breath. Felt the air fill my chest, and realized that, for the first time in a long time, it didn’t scare me.

The second dumbest thing I did that morning, after trying to fry eggs without breaking the yolks, was forgetting the pan was hot and nearly burning the palm of my hand. I muttered a low curse, and that’s when I heard slow footsteps upstairs.

"Is that smoke?" his hoarse voice echoed down the stairs.

Julian appeared at the doorway with a gray sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, eyes still puffy from sleep, and a stupid little grin at the corner of his mouth.

"No. It's the scent of coffee," I said, waving the air with a dish towel.

"You tried cooking with those sticky pans? That’s what I call bravery."

"I tried to make a romantic gesture. But I think I burned the gesture."

He came over, kissed my forehead, and took the spatula from my hand.

"Go sit. Let me scrub these pans first so we don’t end up eating metal."

I huffed, but obeyed. Sat at the kitchen stool while he salvaged what he could from my attempt at breakfast.

And there, in that completely ridiculous scene — me in a wrinkled t-shirt with my hair tied up with a pencil; him, disheveled, frying eggs like a worn-out chef — I felt it. That thing I hadn’t known how to name.

Maybe it was happiness. Or just the absence of fear.

"You know, when I read an article that said couples who cook together are less likely to break up?"

"Oh yeah?" he asked, laughing. "So you tried to keep me through sheer force?"

"Exactly. This is strategic planning. Burnt eggs and eternal love."

He laughed out loud. And I found myself laughing too.

We were just sitting down to eat at the counter when someone knocked on the door. Didn’t ring the bell. Knocked like someone who knows.

Julian exchanged a look with me, got up slowly, and went to the door.

"Can I help you?" I heard him ask, a little wary.

"I’m Ed, from across the street. Came to welcome the new neighbors."

I came closer and saw Ed: a man in his fifties, wearing a pineapple-print shirt, shorts above the knee, and a smile way too wide for that time of day.

"Brought you this," he said, holding out a plastic container with something orange inside. "Pumpkin lasagna with tofu. My wife’s vegan. I refuse to eat it, but she says it’s great for digestion."

"Hm… how kind," I muttered, taking the container like I was holding a mysterious artifact.

"Are you two married?" he asked, bluntly.

"No."

"Oh, sorry. Siblings?" he went on.

"No," we replied, together.

"Got it." Ed nodded like he’d just solved a complex equation. "Well, feel free to stop by our place if you need sugar, flour, or marital advice. I’ve got plenty of all three."

He winked at me. Literally. And walked off whistling a Queen song.

We closed the door and stood in silence for a few seconds.

"That was… surreal," I said.

"I think we just got a stalker. Nice. We’ve officially been marked by the neighborhood."

"If I die from tofu poisoning, you have a moral obligation to avenge me."

"If you die, I’ll eat that tofu on your grave. In mourning and rage."

"Poetic."

"I am."

We went back to the counter, and he kept eating like we hadn’t just been interrupted by a stranger offering suspicious vegan food.

"So?" I asked, eyeing the plate. "What’s the plan for the rest of the day?"

"I’ll stop by the restaurant this afternoon. Check on the renovations, settle up with the electrical guys. Will you be okay here alone?"

"You just saw I can’t even touch a frying pan."

"But I also just saw you earned the respect of a man in a pineapple shirt. So it balances out."

I smiled, picking up my mug.

"Hey, Julian?"

"Hm?"

"Thanks for this."

He looked at me over his shoulder, eyes dark and steady.

"For what?"

"For trying. For believing."

He didn’t reply with words. Just came over, brushed his fingers along the side of my face, and kissed me slowly. A simple kiss, but one that always made me feel too much.

And in that moment, in the crooked kitchen and the suspicious lasagna, I believed. Even with the ghosts. I believed we could work.