I forced brightness into my tone. “It tastes better than it looks.”
He dragged a thumb across his lower lip, watching me like a man indulging an inside joke only he understood. “I bet.”
“Besides, I made them under pressure. This turned out much better than I imagined.”
He arched a brow. “Then what you imagined wasn’t food.”
Instead of retorting like I wanted to, I widened my smile. “Sit. Our roles are reversed today.”
Thrax pulled a stool out and sat, studying the food like it might detonate in his face. Even seated, we were still eye-level, and I realised what he always saw whenever I sat on that stool—me, framed by the living room behind. But with him sitting, his height blocked most of the background, making it feel as though it was just the two of us, and the plates of doomed food between us.
He picked up the fork like it was a weapon and the plate his battlefield. Hesitation flickered across his features before he finally took a bite.
I leaned closer, watching for any reaction, but his face stayed unreadable. The fact that he didn’t spit it out was already a win.
“What do you think?”
He didn’t answer. He sampled the side dishes one by one, chewing slowly. Not disgusted. If anything, he was intrigued.
“Why? Is it so good?” That question was far-fetched, but I wanted to know. I wanted to reach into his mind, crack it open, and hear exactly what he was thinking.
He cleared his throat. “Who taught you how to cook?”
I shrugged. “No one. My mum prefers not having me in the kitchen at all.”
His lips twitched. “It’s quite obvious why your mum doesn’t.”
I leaned forward. “What? It’s that bad?”
He shook his head, and I exhaled, my body loosening an inch.
“I’ve never tasted anything quite like this in my life, actually.” He lifted his gaze. “It’s fascinating.”
With that sarcastic tone, I knew what was coming, but I asked still. “That?”
“That you can be so fantastic at making deadly meals.”
I glared at him. “Then eat up. You want to die anyway.”
“You’d do well cooking for death row inmates. You should apply.” His delivery was painfully serious.
I bit back laughter and reached for the plates. “Forget it.”
His hand moved quicker, pulling the plates back with ease. “I’m no better than a man on death row. I’ll consider this a punishment.”
The urge to smack him sparked hot across my palm. I scoffed instead, gripping the edge of the counter to keep still.
“Eaten?” he asked.
I nodded, eyes fixed on him, trying to read what I couldn’t. He kept eating without the disgust I would’ve expected. There wasn’t even the faintest twitch of a grimace on his face. My mother had thrown my first attempt straight into the bin, gagging dramatically before running to rinse her mouth. And she’d forbidden me from ever stepping into her kitchen again.
Thrax was the only other person to ever taste my food, and he was the only one not recoiling. Perhaps he understood. Perhaps he’d been in this position once too. Oftentimes, people related to things they’d been through. How long did it take him to perfect his cooking? Hundred years? Less? It made me wonder if I was the first person to ever taste it, too. A man like him had a long time to perfect anything.
The quiet filled the kitchen, his fork tapping faintly against the plate, his chewing steady as a metronome. I just watched, unable to look away. Minutes passed, heavy and oddly soothing. In that moment, I understood why he always watched me eat. There was a strange calm in it, a grounding intimacy in the silence.
“Why are you still here?” His voice severed the silence.
I blinked. “What? Watching you eat?”
