Henry’s brows lift, a mix of surprise and approval flashing across his face. “You did? And what did you think?”
I bite my lip, knowing he’s waiting for some grand declaration about how much I loved it. I might never be as passionate about literature as he is, but I would try. “It was good. Mr. Darcy grew on me, but I still think Elizabeth could’ve done better.”
He gasps in horror, placing his hand over his heart. “Better than Darcy? You’re breaking my heart.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “He was a jerk for most of the book! Sure, he redeemed himself, but still. Elizabeth deserved someone who wasn’t so broody.”
“Broody?” Henry echoes, his lips twitching. “That’s harsh. He was misunderstood, not broody. There’s a difference.”
I cross my arms, leaning against the back of his couch. “Whatever you say, professor. Anyways, I’m starving. What did you make?”
“Fine, but I’m going to convince you that Darcy is the ultimate love interest one day,” Henry smirks before turning back toward the kitchen. “I madepollo en mole poblano. It’s a recipe I learned from mymamá.”
I walk toward him and enter into the small kitchen. It was a replica of my kitchen on the floor below us. The same outdated cabinets and countertops decorated the space. “Sounds fancy. What’s in it?”
Henry glances over his shoulder as he stirs something on the stove. “Mainly chicken, but the real magic is the sauce. Ithas chiles, chocolate, and a bunch of spices. It can be difficult to get the flavor just right.”
“Chocolate?” I raise an eyebrow, moving closer to peer into the pot. The rich, dark sauce bubbling away smells incredible. “I’ve never had anything like that before.”
“Then you’re in for a treat,” he says, flashing me a smile. “It’s one of my mom’s favorites. She used to saymoleis like life—you’ve got to embrace the messy parts to appreciate the sweetness.”
My body leans against the counter, watching him work. There’s an ease to how he moves in the kitchen, a confidence that’s hard not to admire. “Your mom sounds wise.”
“She is,” Henry says with pride. “She taught me everything I know about cooking. She said taking care of yourself and the people you care about was important.”
“That’s sweet.” I smile. “Did she show you how to make it?”
“Not at first. She made me figure it out on my own.” He laughs, shaking his head at a memory I wish I could see. “She always said you don’t know a recipe until you’ve messed it up a few times.”
A smile spreads as I try to picture a younger Henry in the kitchen with a cute little apron wrapped around his waist. “Sounds like she knew what she was doing.”
“She did. She still does,” he says, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “She has this way of making everything feel intentional. Like even the mistakes mattered.”
“Do you still cook with her?”
“When I’m home. Yes,” he admits. “But it’s been a while. She still lives in Pittsburg with my stepmom, and I try to visit when I can. I usually stay with them for a few weeks during the summer, but this year looked slightly different.”
Henry's lips pressed into a thin line. I can tell he misses his mom by the longing in his eyes. Before I can respond, he says, “When I told her I was making you mole tonight, she was excited.”
My cheeks heat at the thought of Henry talking about me with his mother. “You told her about me?”
“You might have come up once or twice,” he says casually while moving to the cupboard to get some plates. “Don’t worry. It’s all good things.”
“I should hope so,” I joke, feeling a weird tug on my heart. Henry flashes a smug smile before he continues to plate our meal.
When he sets our plates on the counter, I look down. They look like something from a cooking show: tender chicken smothered in a glossy, dark sauce, sprinkled with sesame seeds, and warm tortillas and rice. I could get used to this.
“Wow,” I say. “This looks amazing.”
“Wait until you taste it,” he says, motioning to the small dining room table in the corner. “But no pressure.”
I pick up one of the plates and follow him to the table before sitting next to him. As soon as I’m settled in, I take a bite. The flavors explode on my tongue—sweet, smoky, a hint of bitterness from the chocolate, and a gentle heat that lingers.
“Oh my God,” I practically moan.
Henry’s lips tilt into a lazy smirk. “If that’s the sound you make when you taste my cooking, we should’ve done this sooner.”
I glance at him, my cheeks flushing as I lower my fork for another bite. “You might be onto something.”
