The last hum of the renovators' tools faded into the quiet.
Amy stood alone in the basement, the air still faints with the smell of sawdust and fresh sealant. The reinforced panels gleamed under the overhead lights, smooth and seamless, each one exactly where she'd envisioned it.
It had taken the better part of the day, but the heart of the house was finally ready.
Not finished — there would always be more to do — but ready.
She exhaled, rolling her shoulders, feeling the familiar ache of work well done. Her mind, however, was already wandering.
Three weeks of planning, patching, stocking. Three weeks of moving between present and past like a pendulum. And yet, in the quiet, another thought rose.
Tomorrow.
She frowned slightly. Why did that stick out?
Her gaze shifted toward the digital planner hovering in her periphery.
One soft blink brought up her schedule.
[Sunday 22 — Sara, 3rd date.]
It clicked.
Her pulse gave the smallest skip.
Amy lingered in the center of the room a moment longer before the corners of her mouth curved just slightly.
"…Right."
If she was honest, she'd nearly let the day slip past her — not because it wasn't important, but because she'd buried herself so deeply in the fortress she was building.
And Sara… Sara deserved more than to be a footnote between renovations.
She dismissed the planner and, with a quiet breath, pulled up her messaging screen.
[Amy]: Hey. About tomorrow—what time works best for you?
A minute passed.
[Sara]: I was thinking late lunch? Gives me the morning to get some work done.
[Sara]: Unless you had something else in mind.
Amy's fingers hovered for only a second.
[Amy]: Late lunch works. Come to my place. I'll cook.
It was blunt, but intentional. She wanted Sara here, not at a café, not in some neutral middle ground. Here.
The reply came faster this time.
[Sara]: …You cook?
[Sara]: This I have to see.
Amy smirked faintly.
[Amy]: Careful. You might like it.
Sara's typing bubble pulsed for a moment.
[Sara]: Now I'm curious.
Pick me up at 2:30?
[Amy]: I'll be there.
She locked the screen, feeling a strange, quiet satisfaction settle in her chest.
2:30. Enough time to prepare the meal without rushing, enough time to make sure the house was… comfortable.
Amy's gaze swept toward the kitchen in her mind's eye, running through what she had in storage. Most of the staples were already here — she'd made sure of that — but this wasn't just any lunch.
Sara's first time here.
She pushed that thought aside before it could grow too heavy and headed upstairs.
The pantry light clicked on with a soft hum.
Amy scanned the shelves like she was surveying a supply cache in the field. Fresh produce from the greenhouse unit: herbs, tomatoes, a small bundle of baby carrots. Dried pasta. Olive oil. Parmesan. A chilled portion of chicken breast in the smart fridge.
Her hands moved automatically, pulling what she needed, setting it in neat lines along the counter.
She could make something warm, bright, and grounding — chicken al Limone with herb pasta, a side of roasted vegetables, maybe a light fruit tart for after. Not formal, but layered enough to say she'd thought about it.
The kitchen filled with the gentle rhythm of her work.
She chopped the vegetables, sliced the lemon, measured spices, and sealed everything in labeled containers for tomorrow. The fridge took in the trays with a quiet hiss of cold air.
It was an old habit, this kind of preparation — a habit born from years where meals weren't guaranteed, where you learned to make the next day easier because the next day might be harder.
But tonight, she caught herself adding an extra sprig of rosemary, checking the vegetables twice, brushing a nonexistent speck from the tart's crust.
She stilled for a moment, recognizing the difference.
This wasn't just readiness. It was… wanting it to be perfect.
By the time she finished, the clock was edging toward midnight. The house was quiet but awake, the soft pulse of the atrium's star map casting slow constellations across the walls.
Amy cleaned the counters, double-checked the fridge seals, and headed upstairs. She changed into lose sleep clothes, but sleep didn't come immediately.
She lay there in the dark, listening to the faint hum of the house systems, the rise and fall of her own breath.
Tomorrow wasn't the end of anything. But it could be the start of something — if she didn't ruin it.
That thought followed her into sleep.