His gaze lands on the garlic, scattered across the cutting board. Shrapnel.
"Your garlic's wrong."
"My garlic is fine."
"You've been trying to peel it whole."
I open my mouth to argue, but he's already moving. Three steps and he's in the kitchen with me, reaching past me to pull a head of garlic from somewhere—a basket on the counter, maybe, or thin air, it's hard to tell when he moves that fast. He breaks off a clove, sets it on the cutting board, lays the flat of a knife on top of it.
"Watch."
He presses down with the heel of his palm. One firm push. The papery skin cracks and falls away, and the clove sits there naked and ready.
"Crush it first. Skin comes right off."
He passes me the knife. I feel the warmth coming off him as I take it. The kitchen isn't big—galley style, all efficiency and no room for two people to exist without touching. There's maybe a foot of space between us, and I smell soap and woodsmoke and something underneath that's just him.
"Now mince it."
I try to copy what he showed me. Set the knife flat on the clove, press down. The skin cracks—miracle—but when I try to mince, the garlic slides. The cuts come out uneven, some pieces chunky, others mashed into the board.
"You're gripping too tight." His voice is lower now. Nearer. "Relax your hand."
"I am relaxed."
"You're white-knuckling the handle. Trying to strangle it."
I'm about to argue—I have a defense prepared, my explanation about different techniques and personal style—when I feel him move behind me.
His chest isn't quite touching my back. His arms come up on either side of me, palms resting on the counter, caging me in without actually holding me. The bulk of him fills the space behind me. If I leaned back an inch, I'd be pressed against him.
I go still.
"Loosen your grip." His voice is right next to my ear, low and rough. "Let the knife do the work."
I should step away and create space. That's what a smart person would do—the same smart person who wouldn't have asked him to stay last night, who wouldn't be standing here learning to chop garlic from an orc who smells like woodsmoke and soap.
My fingers loosen on the knife.
"Good." His breath is warm against my ear. "Now rock the blade. Keep the tip down, move from the wrist."
I try it. The knife moves differently now, pivoting on its point, and the garlic actually cooperates—falls into smaller pieces, more uniform, almost as if I know what I'm doing.
"Better."
He hasn't moved. Neither have I.
His breath stirs my hair. The rise and fall of his chest behind me, inches away but not touching.
I lean back.
Not much. Just a shift of weight, a settling of my shoulders. But enough that I press against him—spine to chest, my body fitting into the curve of his—and I feel him inhale. Sharp. Surprised.
For a second, nothing. Neither of us breathes.
Then his arms tighten on the counter. Drawing in. His body settles against mine, and the warmth becomes heat, becomes thesolid wall of him curved around me, and I forget about the garlic, forget about the tenderloin, forget about everything except the weight of him at my back.
We stand there, his breath in my hair, my pulse loud in my ears.
