He chuckles, low and warm, like I amuse him without even trying and he enjoys this—me. Even when I’m being ridiculous.
He pulls a pack of chicken from the fridge and sets it next to a second cutting board. I start on the peppers while he moves with a quiet precision, cleaning and slicing efficiently. I could probably just watch him cook and be perfectly happy.
He doesn’t use a packet when he reaches for seasonings. He grabs actual jars—cumin, smoked paprika, garlic powder, chili flakes, oregano, salt, pepper, and a splash of lime juice.
“No taco seasoning packet?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Silas shoots me a look like I just insulted his ancestors. “Store-bought seasoning tastes like preservatives and disappointment.”
“I don’t know, man,” I say, deadpan. “Disappointment’s kind of my brand.”
That earns a rare smirk. “I’m aware. That’s why I’m teaching you how to do better.”
He nudges a small glass bowl toward me. “Teaspoon ofeverything. Except the chili flakes—just a pinch. And don’t go nose-deep in the paprika. Trust me.”
“Let me guess,” I say, measuring carefully. “You did it once?”
“Twice,” he admits with a grimace. “It was a dark time.”
Our fingers brush as I pass him the bowl. He doesn’t pull away. And something about that—the way he doesn’t flinch from my touch, the way he just takes it, soft and simple—settles the chaos in my chest.
He takes the bowl and dumps the mix over the thinly sliced chicken and peppers in a hot skillet, the sizzle filling the space between us.
“Smells amazing,” I murmur.
“Seasoning’s from the heart,” he says, flipping the pan with a practiced hand. “Cooking for someone is a love language. You don’t do it for people you don’t care about.”
I glance at him, but he doesn’t look away from the stove.
God.
I could fall for him.
I already am.
We eat on the couch.
Plates balanced on our laps. Bare feet tucked under thighs. The TV’s on low, but we’re not really watching it. Just the sound of it, the background hum, as if the rest of the world has faded, and this tiny bubble—his place, his warmth, the fajitas we made together—is all that matters.
“So?” he asks, nudging my shoulder gently. “Worth the time it took to cook them?”
I glance down at my now-empty plate and back at him,heart full. “Okay, yeah. You win. Homemade tortillas are life-changing.”
He smirks. “Told you.”
I set my plate on the coffee table and shift sideways, resting my head against the back of the couch so I can look at him. He mirrors the move, knees brushing mine. He’s so handsome it makes my heart hurt.
“What else do you love?” I ask, suddenly curious. “Besides cooking. And torturing me during drills.”
“Reading,” he says without hesitation. “History. Biographies. I like knowing how people became who they are.”
I blink. “Nerd.”
He shrugs. “I can live with that.”
“Okay, your turn.”
He tilts his head. “What do you love?”
