"I'd love that." The words came out before I could overthink them, and I watched his whole face transform — eyes going wide, mouth falling open, a smile starting to bloom across his features like the sun breaking through clouds, his scent shifting from anxious to joyful so fast it made my head spin.
"Really?" His voice cracked on the word, his amber eyes searching my face like he was looking for the lie, his hands unclenching in his lap, his whole body leaning toward me like a flower toward sunlight. "You mean it? Because I've been planning — I mean, I have some ideas — there's this recipe I've been wanting to try, and I thought maybe—" He stopped himself,taking a visible breath, his hands clenching again on his thighs. "Sorry. I'm doing the thing again. The too much thing."
"You're not too much." I reached out and touched his knee, feeling him go still under my hand, his breath catching audibly, his amber eyes locking onto mine with something that looked almost like desperation. "I like your enthusiasm, Kol. It's one of my favorite things about you."
He stared at me like I'd handed him the moon, his amber eyes going bright with emotion, his throat working as he swallowed hard, his voice coming out rough and wondering. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I squeezed his knee gently before pulling my hand back, watching him visibly struggle to contain the smile threatening to split his face. "What time should I be ready?"
"Six?" His voice was still a little breathless, a little awed, like he couldn't quite believe this was happening, his hands twitching in his lap like he wanted to reach for me but wasn't sure if he was allowed. "I'll kick everyone else out. Give us some space."
"Sounds perfect." I smiled at him, and he practically glowed, his scent going warm and bright with happiness. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his own legs in his haste, his arms windmilling briefly before he caught his balance, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment even as his smile widened.
"Okay. Great. Six o'clock. I'll — I'm going to go prep. There's a lot to do. I want it to be perfect." He was already backing toward the door, his words tumbling out faster and faster, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. "You won't regret this, I promise. I'm a really good cook. Well, most of the time. Sometimes I get distracted and burn things, but not tonight. Tonight will be perfect."
"Kol." I couldn't help the laugh that escaped me, warm and fond, watching him nearly back into the doorframe. "Breathe."He stopped, took a deep breath that expanded his whole chest, and grinned at me — sheepish and hopeful and so genuinely happy that it made my heart squeeze in my chest.
"Right. Breathing. I can do that." He gave me one last brilliant smile, his amber eyes sparkling, before disappearing through the door, and I could hear him practically skipping down the hallway, his footsteps light and quick and full of joy.
At six o'clock, I made my way downstairs to find the kitchen transformed.
Candles flickered on the counter — actual candles, not the LED ones — casting warm, dancing shadows across the walls. Something that smelled incredible was simmering on the stove, filling the air with garlic and herbs and something rich and savory. Soft music was playing from somewhere, something instrumental and warm.
Kol was at the center of it all, standing at the stove in an apron that said "Kiss the Cook" in bright red letters, his blonde hair mussed and his cheeks flushed from the heat, stirring something in a large pot with intense concentration, his tongue poking out between his lips.
"Wow." The word slipped out before I could stop it, and he spun around, his face lighting up when he saw me, a wooden spoon clutched in one hand, sauce dripping onto the floor unnoticed.
"You came!" His voice was bright with relief, like he'd half-expected me to change my mind, his amber eyes sweeping over me from head to toe, his free hand coming up to push his hair out of his face and leaving a smear of sauce across his forehead. "You look — wow. You look beautiful. Not that you don't always look beautiful. But tonight you look especially — I mean—" He stopped, took a breath, his cheeks flushing even darker, andlaughed at himself, the sound a little self-deprecating. "Sorry. Starting over. Hi. Welcome to Kol's Kitchen. Population: us."
"Hi." I couldn't help smiling at his nervousness, at the way he was clutching that wooden spoon like a lifeline, at the sauce on his forehead that he didn't seem to know was there. "It smells amazing in here."
"Chicken marsala." He turned back to the stove, stirring with renewed vigor, his shoulders relaxing slightly now that he had something to do with his hands, his voice steadying as he focused on the familiar task. "My grandmother's recipe. Well, my grandmother's recipe with some modifications, because I can never leave well enough alone. But the base is hers."
"You cook a lot?" I moved closer, drawn by the scent of food and the warmth of him, leaning against the counter to watch him work, close enough now to see the way his hands moved with practiced confidence despite his nervous energy.
"All the time." He glanced at me over his shoulder, a small smile playing at his lips, his amber eyes warm in the candlelight. "It's kind of my thing. Food is... I don't know. It's how I show people I care, I guess." He turned back to the pot, stirring thoughtfully, his voice going softer, more reflective. "Words get all jumbled up in my mouth, and I say the wrong thing or I say too much or I scare people off. But food is simple. You cook something good, you feed someone, they know you care." He shrugged, the movement making his shoulder blades shift beneath his thin t-shirt. "Plus, these guys would live on takeout and protein bars if someone didn't feed them actual meals."
"That's really sweet, Kol." I watched his back, the way his shoulders tensed slightly at the compliment, the way his stirring slowed.
"Yeah, well." His voice went a little rough, a little self-conscious, his head ducking down like he was embarrassed. "It'sthe one thing I'm actually good at. The one thing I can contribute that actually matters."
There was something in his tone that made my chest ache — something that sounded almost like he believed that cooking was all he had to offer. I filed that away to address later and watched him work instead, marveling at the easy competence of his movements despite his nervous energy.
He was genuinely skilled, I realized. Not just enthusiastic but actually talented, moving around the kitchen with the kind of unconscious grace that came from years of practice. He julienned vegetables without looking, adjusted seasonings by smell and taste, managed three different pans at once without breaking a sweat.
"Where did you learn to cook like this?" I asked, accepting the glass of wine he pressed into my hands — something red and rich that smelled like berries and oak, his fingers brushing against mine in a way that sent sparks up my arm.
"Taught myself, mostly." He was plating now, arranging food with careful attention, his brow furrowed in concentration, his tongue poking out between his lips again in that way that was becoming endearing. "My family wasn't really the cooking type. Five kids, both parents working — we lived on casseroles and fast food. But my grandmother..." His voice softened, his movements slowing, something wistful crossing his features. "She used to let me help her in the kitchen when I visited. She was the only one who never told me I was too much, you know? She'd just hand me a spoon and let me stir, let me taste things, let me make a mess." He smiled, small and sad, his amber eyes going distant with memory. "She died when I was fifteen. After that, I started teaching myself. Watching videos, reading cookbooks, experimenting. It was like... like keeping a piece of her alive."
"That's beautiful." My voice came out softer than I intended, thick with emotion I hadn't expected to feel, my grip tightening on the wine glass.
He looked up at me, his amber eyes bright with something vulnerable, something raw, his hands stilling on the plates. "You think so? Most people think it's weird. A big Alpha who likes to cook." He shrugged, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened, the defensive hunch creeping into his posture. "My brothers used to give me shit about it constantly. Said I was too soft. Too domestic. Not Alpha enough."
"Your brothers sound like assholes." The words came out sharper than I intended, fierce and protective, and Kol's eyes went wide before he let out a startled laugh, surprise and delight mingling on his face.
"Yeah." He set the plates down on the small table he'd set up in the corner — actual place settings, cloth napkins, a small vase with wildflowers that looked like he'd picked them himself — his movements careful, deliberate, like he was buying time to compose himself. "Yeah, they kind of were. Still are, probably. I wouldn't know. Haven't talked to them in years."
"I'm sorry." I took the seat he pulled out for me, watching him settle across from me, his long legs folding under the table, his hands immediately finding something to fidget with — the edge of his napkin, the stem of his wine glass.
