His lips twitch again, that almost-smile surfacing. “Should I alphabetize the plates?”
“Try it and lose a finger.”
He chuckles—a sound so low and rare it feels like a secret.
I turn back to my stove, pretending I don’t like the sound of it.
Dinner starts as an experiment—the air warm with spice and lemon, the low hiss of oil meeting the pan filling the space with a steady, intimate rhythm and ends as a silent competition. He takes up one corner of the counter, elbows squared, watching every move like I’m a live-action cooking show he refuses to admit he’s invested in.
I sear chicken in turmeric and lemon, steam garlicky greens, fluff citrus quinoa. It’s not fancy, just balanced. The kind of meal that builds you back from the inside out.
Leo stays quiet, except for the occasional, “You time everything?”
“It’s called precision,” I reply. “Some of us use clocks instead of heart rate monitors.”
He grunts, amused, leaning closer when the scent of toasted spices hits the air. The warmth turns my kitchen golden, sun glowing off copper pans and glass jars. For the first time since he moved in, the space feels… shared.
I plate the food, sliding one dish across to him. “Turmeric lemon chicken, garlicky greens, citrus quinoa.”
He raises a brow. “Colorful.”
“Food should look like a sunset,” I say, settling opposite him. “Now eat before it gets cold.”
He takes one slow bite. Then another. His expression doesn’t change, but his fork doesn’t stop moving either. By the time I reach for my own plate, he’s already clearing his.
“Decent?” I ask.
He wipes his mouth, finally looking up. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” I repeat, incredulous. “That’s all I get?”
He holds my gaze. “I don’t hand out superlatives.”
“Good thing I’m fluent in understatement,” I mutter, spearing a bite of quinoa. “That means amazing.”
The edge of his mouth lifts. “If you say so.”
“Oh, I say so.” I point my fork at him. “Half your teammates think ordering risotto to-go counts as recovery. You’re lucky I’m here to save you from beige food and mediocrity.”
Something flickers across his face—quick, subtle, gone before I can name it. “You shouldn’t talk about them like that.”
“Truth isn’t slander,” I shoot back. “And if it makes you feel better, I think you’re the only one who actually eats like you train.”
He doesn’t look relieved. Just thoughtful, maybe even… wary.
I try to change the subject, pushing my hair out of my face. “You want tart cherry juice for recovery? Helps with inflammation, sleep?—”
He shakes his head. “You don’t have to?—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “But I like feeding people. Even stubborn ones.”
The silence that follows feels heavier than it should. He sets his fork down, slow and deliberate, like he’s choosing not to argue.
Before I can fill the space, my laptop dings. Maya’s name flashes across the screen—FaceTime call. I swipe to answer, propping it on the counter.
“Hey, chef,” she chirps. “You alive? The restaurant’s too quiet without you—” She stops mid-sentence, eyes widening. “Wait. Is that the hot one from Élan?”
Leo freezes mid-sip. I swear my soul leaves my body.
