Chapter 4 Kitchen Confessions

Zane's POV

Watching Skye Mitchell storm away from my door felt like watching a scared cat retreat - all bristled defense and barely contained panic. I leaned against my doorframe, the weight of my mistake settling heavy in my chest.

The shattered jar of sofrito wasn't just about wasted sauce; it was trust broken before it could even form.

"Well, that could've gone better," Ruby announced, twirling one of her vintage amethyst rings. Her purple-tinted hair caught the hallway light as she turned to face me. "Though I maintain breaking and entering is a valid friendship strategy."

I ran a hand through my hair, probably making it stick up worse than usual. "Ruby, you can't just-"

"Use the master key Mrs. Garcia gave me for emergencies?" She arched an eyebrow. "Watch me. Someone needs to bridge the gap between you two before the sexual tension causes a building-wide power outage."

Tommy snickered from where he was sprawled on my couch, his gangly teenage frame taking up more space than seemed physically possible. "Yeah, boss. The way you look at her when she's not watching? It's like how Marcus stares at perfectly plated dishes."

"I do not-" I stopped, recognizing a losing battle. "Don't you have homework?"

"Finished it," Tommy said proudly. "Maria helped me with the algebra." He nodded toward the quiet girl perched on my kitchen counter, her worn sneakers barely touching the lower cabinets.

Maria offered a small smile, reminding me of Skye in a way - that same careful observation of the world, like she was cataloging every detail for future reference. But where Skye's watchfulness seemed born of fear, Maria's came from survival.

"Speaking of Maria," I said, grabbing my keys, "we need to hit the farmers' market before Jorge sells all his good tomatoes. You two want to come?"

Tommy practically levitated off the couch. "Can we get those weird purple carrots again? Maria's never had them roasted with honey!"

"They're not weird, they're heritage varieties," I corrected automatically, making both teens roll their eyes. "And yes, but you're carrying them."

"I'll hold down the fort," Ruby called after us. "Maybe organize your spice rack alphabetically instead of by color like a psychopath!"

"Touch my spices and you're banned from taste-testing!" I threatened, but she just waved dismissively.

The autumn air hit us like a wake-up call as we stepped outside. Brooklyn was showing off its October best - trees along the street wearing their fall colors like evening gowns, the skyline softened by that peculiar golden light that made everything look like an old photograph.

"You really like her, don't you?" Maria's voice was so quiet I almost missed it. When I turned, she was studying me with those too-old eyes. "Ms. Mitchell. Even though she hates the noise."

I thought about Skye's face when she'd opened that sofrito jar - the flash of something raw and vulnerable before the walls slammed back up. "She doesn't hate the noise," I said carefully. "She's afraid of it. There's a difference."

"Like how I used to be afraid of closed doors?" Tommy asked, his usual bravado slipping for a moment.

My heart squeezed. Sometimes I forgot how young they both were, how much they'd survived. "Yeah, kid. Like that."

We walked in comfortable silence for a block before Tommy spoke again. "So what's the plan?"

"Plan?"

"To get her to not be scared anymore. You always have a plan. Like when you helped me with the door thing by putting bells on them so I could hear them opening."

I smiled at the memory. "Can't fix someone else's fear, Tommy. They have to want to work through it themselves. All we can do is create a safe space and be patient."

"Is that why you've been playing softer music?" Maria asked. "And why you moved the prep station away from the shared wall?"

Sometimes I forgot how observant these kids were. "Maybe."

"And why you keep making extra food with ingredients she mentions liking when she talks to herself?" Tommy grinned.

"I do not eavesdrop on-" A commotion up ahead cut me off.

Jorge's usual market stall was surrounded by suits - health department badges glinting in the sun. My stomach dropped as I recognized one of them: Carmen Ortiz, the inspector who'd shut down my first restaurant attempt five years ago.

She turned, spotted me, and smiled like a shark scenting blood. "Mr. Rodriguez. Just the person I wanted to see."

Tommy and Maria instinctively stepped closer to me as Carmen approached, her heels clicking against the pavement like a countdown.

"We've received some interesting complaints about unauthorized food service in residential buildings," she said, examining her immaculate nails. "Would you know anything about that?"

Before I could answer, a familiar voice cut through the tension. "Actually, I believe I can help with that."

Skye Mitchell stood at the edge of the crowd, her green eyes fierce despite her obvious anxiety. She was clutching a notebook like a shield, but her voice was steady as she continued:

"I'm writing a story about the intersection of food safety regulations and community service. I'd love to get your perspective on how current policies might be inadvertently criminalizing mutual aid efforts. On the record, of course."

Carmen's smile faltered. "And you are?"

"Skye Mitchell, investigative journalist." She held up a press badge I was almost certain belonged to Ruby. "Shall we discuss over coffee? I have so many questions about the department's selective enforcement patterns."

As she led a suddenly-flustered Carmen away, Skye caught my eye for just a moment. The look we shared was electric - confusion, gratitude, and something deeper I wasn't ready to name.

"Boss?" Tommy tugged my sleeve. "Your ears are turning red."

"Shut up and get your weird carrots," I muttered, but I couldn't stop grinning.

Maria touched my arm gently. "Do you think she'll really help? What if she's just gathering information to use against you?"

It was a fair question. Trust wasn't something any of us gave easily anymore. But I remembered the way Skye's hands shook when she opened that sofrito jar, how she'd inhaled like she was breathing in a memory.

"I think," I said slowly, "that sometimes the people who understand pain best are the ones most driven to prevent it in others."

"Even if they're scared?" Tommy asked.

"Especially then." I watched Skye gesturing animatedly as she spoke with Carmen, her messy bun threatening to escape its confines entirely. "Sometimes being brave isn't about not being scared. It's about being scared and doing the right thing anyway."

A text buzzed in my pocket. From an unknown number:

You have exactly one hour to explain why I shouldn't write an exposé that would shut you down permanently. Your place. Bring more of that sauce.

I smiled. Progress, even if it came with a side of blackmail.

"Change of plans, kids. We need to grab ingredients for a very important dinner."

Tommy groaned. "Please tell me you're not going to try to seduce her with food. That's so cliché."

"No," I said, already mentally reorganizing tonight's menu. "I'm going to tell her the truth. The food is just to make sure she stays long enough to hear it."

As we gathered our supplies, I caught sight of a familiar figure watching from the second floor of the building across the street. Detective Sarah Mitchell, Skye's sister, speaking urgently into a phone.

The game was changing, and I had a feeling the next few hours would determine far more than just dinner service.

Maria tugged my sleeve. "Zane? That detective lady doesn't look happy."

"No," I agreed, watching Sarah's silhouette disappear. "No, she doesn't."