Barnaby shot me a sheepish smile but pushed his jar away with one finger. “It is a little… much. Sorry, Hazel.”
“No need. All information is useful information. Besides, most people have that kind of response to chia. They either hate it or sing its praises.”
Also, it was nice to see that at least they agreed on something. It felt a little like we were going in the right direction. “Now, for option three.”
I grabbed the final box and opened it to reveal rows of small, perfectly round spheres dusted in dark cacao. They looked almost too good to eat, which was exactly the point. Visual appeal mattered, especially when trying to convince a stubborn bodybuilder that healthy dessert could actually exist. “Protein bites. Oats, almond butter, protein powder, cacao. These give you an energy boost about thirty minutes before training without weighing you down or causing any texture-based existential crises.”
I placed two on each of their plates and stepped back, crossing my arms. “Go ahead. Find something wrong with these.”
Brok picked one up slowly, examining it from every conceivable angle like he was quality-checking precision equipment. He sniffed it. He squeezed it gently betweenhis fingers, testing the density. He was stalling, I realized. Searching for some visible flaw that would let him reject these before even tasting them.
“Just try it,” I said, my patience officially exhausted for the day.
He bit into it.
Complete stillness descended over the kitchen. He stopped moving entirely, stopped breathing. He just sat there frozen with a protein bite in his mouth.
He chewed slowly, then very deliberately swallowed. When he reached for the second one, he ate it faster than he had the first.
Barnaby had already demolished both of his and was staring at the box with the kind of desperate longing usually reserved for lost loves and discontinued menu items. His eyes were actually glistening. “Can I have these every day? For the rest of my life? I’ll do anything. Extra training, extra cardio, I’ll run marathons, just please—”
I watched Brok struggle. Actually watched him search for criticism that refused to materialize. The silence stretched long enough that I started to wonder if he’d simply given up on speech entirely.
“Well?” I couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of my voice. Victory tasted incredibly sweet. Possibly sweeter than the protein bites themselves. “What’s wrong with these? Too round? Too brown? Not sufficiently punishing?”
His ears went red. Actually, genuinely red, like someone had painted them. “They’re fine.”
“Fine.” I wrote that down with deliberate emphasis, making sure the pen scratched loudly against the paper. “So you’ll let me make these for him?”
“Yeah.” The word came out grudging, reluctant, as if it physically hurt to admit defeat. He was still frowning, clearly annoyed that he couldn’t manufacture a complaint. “How many?”
“I can do three dozen a week without any trouble.” I set down my pen and watched his face carefully for signs of the inevitable objection. “I’ll have them done on Tuesdays. Just drop by and pick them up. No charge.”
His head snapped up fast enough that I heard his neck crack. “What?”
“No charge,” I repeated, keeping my arms crossed. “I offered to help Barnaby. That’s what I’m doing. Helping.”
Something complicated crossed his face. If I hadn’t known any better, I might have called it respect. Or maybe… Something more? “You don’t need to—”
“I know I don’t need to.” I cut him off. I didn’t dare to analyze that look too closely. “I want to. Barnaby deserves something that makes him happy instead of just fueling him like a machine. So I’ll make them, you’ll pick them up, and you’ll let him eat them without threatening marathon training sessions. Deal?”
He stared at me for a long moment, clearly trying to identify the trap. Finally, he extended his hand across the counter, the gesture stiff and formal. “Deal.”
I took his hand. His palm completely dwarfed mine, callused and warm and careful. Our hands stayed connected a fraction too long, his thumb brushing against my wrist before he pulled away.
Barnaby had somehow acquired three more power bites and was eating them with focused intensity. Cocoa powder dusted his nose and glasses like he’d face-planted into a bowl of the stuff.
He reached for another one and popped the whole thing into his mouth. His cheeks bulged like a chipmunk who’d just discovered premium acorns.
The overhead lights flickered briefly.
Barnaby’s eyes went wide. He grabbed at his throat. A harsh, panicked choking sound emerged that made my stomach drop.
Brok moved so fast he practically blurred. One second he was sitting on the stool. The next he was behind Barnaby, arms wrapped around his small frame, fists positioned precisely below the ribcage. He pulled upward in one sharp, practiced motion. The power bite shot out of Barnaby’s mouth and landed on the counter with a soft thud.
Barnaby gasped, sucking in air with ragged, desperate breaths. His whole body shook as he coughed. “Easy.Slow breaths.” Brok’s hands moved to Barnaby’s shoulders, steadying him. “You’re okay. Just breathe. Nice and slow. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
Well. That had been exciting in a way I could have done without. My heart was beating faster than usual. Brok had handled the crisis so efficiently it barely qualified as an emergency, but it had still been a shock. I made a mental note to add ‘smaller bites’ and ‘please chew your food’ to my safety disclaimer, possibly in all caps.
