Despite my nerves, a grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. “That’s… actually impressive.”
“Right? It takes real talent to mess up a preheating cycle.” She picks up a package of bacon like it might bite her. “Please tell me you have some kitchen skills, because otherwise we’re about to create something that might violate several health codes.”
I can’t stop the ghost of a grin slipping through. “I can cook,” I say quietly. “Basic stuff, anyway.”
“Thank God.” She sets down the bacon and looks at me seriously. “Okay, here’s the deal. You handle anything that involves actual culinary knowledge, and I’ll… chop things? Or stand back and try not to cause any fires?”
Her easy trust in me throws me off balance, but it feels damn good. There’s no ego, no need to prove herself—just practical teamwork. It’s refreshing after a lifetime of people either dismissing what I can do or being surprised that an orc knows his way around a kitchen.
“You could unwrap the dates while I prep the bacon?” I suggest.
“I can handle unwrapping. Probably.”
As we work, I relax. She isn’t trying to make small talk about the weather or to ask awkward questions about orc culture. She’s just focused on the task at hand, approaching it with the same directness she showed during our speed dating round.
“So what do you do?” I ask as I lay strips of bacon in the pan, adjusting the heat to prevent the disaster I can see happening at the cooking station next to us. “Besides unwrap dates with suspicious competence.”
“Divorce lawyer.” She pauses in her unwrapping. “Which probably explains my sunny disposition about romance.”
“That must be… challenging work.”
“It pays well and provides endless evidence that love is a temporary delusion that leads to expensive legal fees.” She glances at me. “What about you? Besides running into burning buildings?”
“Woodworking, mostly. I make furniture in my spare time.”
Her hands stop moving. “Really? That’s incredible. I can barely assemble IKEA furniture without having a nervous breakdown.”
There’s genuine interest in her voice, not the polite-but-distant tone most humans use when they’re trying to make conversation with an Other. It hits somewhere low and solid, the kind of warmth you don’t expect from small talk.
“It’s just a hobby,” I say, but I can’t quite keep the pride out of my voice.
“Don’t downplay it. Creating something beautiful with your hands is a gift.”
No one calls it beautiful. They call it useful.
The bacon sizzles more aggressively, sending small droplets of grease flying. Jordan jumps back with a small yelp.
“Maybe the bacon doesn’t like being cooked. Did you see that? It’s spitting at us.”
“It’s fine, just—” I reach for the pan handle at the same moment she steps forward to help, and suddenly we’re very close together. Close enough that I can smell her perfume, somethinglight and citrusy that makes my enhanced senses go haywire. The scent lands on my tongue; instinct says breathe her in and hold. I angle my body between her and the stove.
The grease spits more aggressively, a sharp pop cutting through our laughter. She startles and reaches out, her hand catching my arm. The contact jolts through me—then instinct takes over. I shift, putting myself between her and the stove just as a spark flares from the pan.
“Small flare,” I say, steady but rough. “Step back.”
I move without thinking—kill the burner, slide a sheet pan over the flames, and hold it there until the fire chokes out. The hiss fades, replaced by the sharp beep of the smoke detector.
I tap the hush button with a knuckle, bump the hood fan to low now that it’s safe, and keep the pan covered another beat for good measure.
When I finally glance at her, she’s still standing close, eyes wide, her hand hovering where it had touched my arm.
“Everything under control over there?” Brokka calls from a few stations over, extinguisher at his side, amusement in his voice.
“Handled.” After lifting the cover to see a tame sizzle, I ease the heat back on low.
“I’m sure you did.” His grin suggests he noticed exactly how “handled” the situation was. “Carry on.”
Jordan and I avoid each other’s eyes, both of us suddenly very interested in our respective tasks. But I can still smell her perfume, still feel the phantom touch of her hand on my arm.
