I shrug, casual, playful. “I couldn’t. There’s these annoying butterflies that keep taking up all the space in my stomach anytime I know I’m about to see you.”
Silas just stares at me for a second. Then he sighs and mutters something under his breath in Spanish that Ireallywish I understood. He shakes his head and stands, tugging me up by the hand like I’m something soft and easy to keep close.
“Then I guess we’re making lunch.”
He leads me into the kitchen—and okay, I’ll admit it, I’m impressed. The place is sleek, clean, and probably featured in a cooking magazine somewhere. Stainless steel everything. Matching dish towels. And a spice rack that saysI know what I’m doinginstead ofI stole this from my mom’s pantry.
“You cook?” I ask, lifting a brow as he starts pulling things from the fridge like he’s got a plan.
“I do,” he replies, tone unbothered. “Did you think I lived on protein shakes and self-loathing?”
I grin. “That’s hot. Keep going.”
He gives me a look, then sets a bag of flour on the counter and tosses me an apron. “You’re helping.”
I blink. “Uh. Are we baking something?”
“We’re making tortillas to go with the Fajitas.”
I pause. “Wait. Likeactualtortillas?”
He glances at me, already opening a drawer and pulling out a mixing bowl. “Homemade. Flour. You’re not leaving until you learn something.”
I groan but slide the apron over my head, standing besidehim as he talks me through the steps—how much flour, how warm the water needs to be, what the dough should feel like between my fingers. His voice is low and patient, as if this isn’t new to him. His hand brushes mine now and then to adjust how I knead or press or roll.
We’re shoulder to shoulder, and there’s flour on the counter, on my arms, probably in my hair—and definitely on my cheek if the way he’s looking at me is any indication.
My stomach flips as he reaches out and brushes the flour off with his thumb. “You’ve got…a little…” His touch lingers, as his eyes soften.
And then he kisses me. Sweet and slow. There isn’t really any heat or lust, just this grounding affection that’s starting to feel dangerously addictive.
I melt. Actually melt.
I didn’t know kisses could feel like this. Like coming home or being chosen on purpose, not because I’m shiny or loud or funny, but because he sees me. The real me.
When he pulls back, I’m smiling like an idiot.
“I’m going to make you an excellent cook,” he says, brushing his thumb one more time over my cheek like he can’t help himself.
“Yeah?” I ask, still grinning. “Do the kisses help?”
“Positive reinforcement,” he says with a straight face, even as his eyes glint. “Since we both know you like that.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips anyway, the warm, swoopy kind of flip that’s entirely unfair for a moment so simple. He moves to cover the dough with a towel and sets it aside.
“Needs to rest for a few minutes,” he explains. “Helps with the texture.”
“Same,” I mutter under my breath. “Can’t be expected to perform without a break.”
He gives me a look that’s part amused, part warning, but he’s fighting a smile as he reaches for a cutting board and a bowl of bell peppers.
“Here. Slice these. Long and thin. No hacking.”
“Rude to assume I was going to hack,” I say as I take the knife.
“Not an assumption. Just a strong hunch,” he says, lips twitching. “You give off... bagel-murderer energy.”
“That’s profiling,” I mutter. “Bagels are treacherous little bastards. One wrong angle and it's a trip to the ER.”
