"Worth it," he says, and kisses me right there in the garage, tasting like coffee and satisfaction.
Chapter 16
Ash
"You're in charge of the spicy one."
Jason hands me a block of pepper jack cheese and points to the cutting board he's set up at the end of the counter. The kitchen is warm and smells like butter and garlic, steam rising from three different pots of pasta water coming to a boil on the commercial stove. He's got an apron on—a ridiculous thing with a cartoon lion that says "Mane Cook"—and there's a smear of flour on his cheek.
He looks happy. Truly, deeply happy, in his element, doing what he was born to do.
"Mac and cheese night," he'd explained when he texted me earlier. "It's a thing. Everyone picks their toppings, I make the bases. You should come help."
So here I am, sleeves rolled up past my elbows, learning to cube cheese while Jason works on three different sauces simultaneously, moving between pots with the easy grace of someone who's done this a thousand times.
"Smaller cubes," he says, glancing over while whisking something creamy. "They'll melt better."
"How small?"
"Like this." He sets down his whisk and comes up behind me, wraps his hand around mine on the knife, and guides me through a few cuts. His chest against my back, solid and steady, and he smells like cheese and butter. "See? Half-inch cubes, give or take. You want them uniform so they melt at the same rate."
"This feels very precise for comfort food."
"Good food is always precise. Comfort doesn't mean sloppy." He kisses my shoulder, right where it meets my neck, and goes back to his sauces. "The spicy one gets pepper jack,habanero cheddar, and a splash of the ghost pepper hot sauce in the pantry. Top shelf, behind the vanilla."
"You have ghost pepper hot sauce?"
"I bought it for you. After the Spice King thing." He's stirring the roux now, not looking at me, but I can see the tips of his ears going pink. "Figured you might want it around. For when you're here."
He bought hot sauce for me. Weeks ago, before we were even together, before we'd done more than trade looks across the bar. He went out and bought something just because I mentioned I liked spicy food, just in case I might someday be in his kitchen wanting it.
"Jason."
"It's just hot sauce. It's not a big—"
"Come here."
He turns, whisk still in hand, and I pull him in by the apron strings and kiss him properly. He makes a soft sound against my mouth—surprise melting into pleasure—and leans into me, his free hand coming up to rest against my stomach. He tastes like the sauce he's been tasting, buttery and rich.
"The roux is going to burn," he mumbles against my lips.
"Let it."
"Ash." But he's laughing as he pulls away, hurrying back to the stove to stir. The roux is fine—barely starting to darken—but he fusses over it anyway, adjusting the heat, adding milk in a slow stream. "You can kiss me all you want after we feed everyone."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He shoots me a look over his shoulder, heated and wanting. "Now focus. Those cheese cubes aren't going to cut themselves."
I go back to my station, and it's strange how natural this feels. Being in his space, doing tasks he assigns me, workingalongside him toward a shared goal. It's not that different from a mission, really. Clear objectives, defined roles, teamwork. Communication.
Except in missions, no one ever looked at me the way Jason does when I finally get the cheese cubes right—uniform little blocks, exactly the size he asked for.
"Perfect," he says, and he means it. "Now add them to that pot, the one with the cayenne base. Stir constantly while they melt."
I stir. The cheese melts into the sauce, orange bleeding into cream, and the smell that rises up is sharp and rich and makes my mouth water.
"More hot sauce?"
