They were in the kitchen.

Sebastian leaned against the counter, arms crossed. Callista sat at the high bar stool, her feet resting on the crossbar.

Her skin had regained its color and warmth. Her clothes, while still battered and salt-stiff, had been washed and dried—by an actual, real-life machine, not a beach tide.

They just watched each other in silence—until the moment was broken by a low rumble from her stomach. She blushed, looking sheepish.

Sebastian cleared his throat.

"Come on. ...