"Right. The wassail." I turn back to the pot, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing. "Definitely needs stirring."
He moves back to a safer distance, but I can feel him watching me. Can feel the thread of the bond between us, stronger than it was this morning. Not the domination Grandmother maintained. Something else. Something choosing.
I stir the wassail, adding another small thread of magic. *Warmth. Comfort. The courage to reach out. The safety to be reached for.*
"Iris?"
"Yeah?"
"When you put intention into your magic. Into the food, the wassail. Can you feel it working?"
"Yes. It's like..." I search for the words. "Like planting seeds. You can feel them take root. Feel them wanting to grow."
"And you put that into everything you make?"
"Most things. When I remember to. When I have the energy." I glance at him. "Why?"
"Because I can taste it." He's leaning against the counter now, arms crossed, but his posture is relaxed. "Every meal. Every cup of tea. Every time you cook something and insist I try it. I can taste your magic. Your intention. It's..." He pauses, searching for words. "I'd forgotten that food could taste like caring."
Oh.
"That's the whole point," I say softly. "Food should always taste like caring."
"Not in my experience."
"Then your experience has been sadly lacking." I turn back to the pot, adjusting the heat. "I'm going to fix that. Fair warning though, I'm going to cook elaborate meals for no reason, and you're going to eat them and taste every bit of caring I put into them, and you're going to have to deal with it."
"That sounds terrible."
But he's smiling. Actually smiling. Not the ghost of amusement or the hint of a curve. A real smile that transforms his entire face, making him look younger, lighter, almost human.
"There it is," I say without thinking.
"What?"
"Your smile. I was starting to think it was a myth."
"I don't smile."
"You are literally smiling right now."
"This is not a smile. This is a brief facial anomaly."
"A facial anomaly. Right." I grin at him. "Well, your facial anomaly is very nice. You should have more of them."
"Unlikely."
"We'll see about that."
He shakes his head, but the smile doesn't quite fade. We stand there in the kitchen, wassail simmering, cinnamon still scattered across every surface, and something settles between us. Something warm and easy and almost like friendship.
Through the bond, I feel his surprise at his own laughter. His confusion at how comfortable this is becoming. And underneath it all, something golden and tentative that might, eventually, be happiness.
"You should teach me," he says suddenly.
"Teach you what?"
"To cook. Properly. Not just chopping vegetables with precision." He straights up slightly. "If I'm to help with the Midwinter feast, I should understand more than knife work."
