“You can’t just throw spices in without measuring,” he said, watching her shake oregano directly into the sauce.
“Sure, I can. Watch me.” She added basil with the same casual disregard for portions. “Cooking is art, not science.”
“It’s chemistry. Precise measurements create predictable results.”
“Predictable is boring.” She reached for the red pepper flakes.
He intercepted her hand. “That’s enough spice.”
They stood frozen, his hand wrapped around her wrist, both staring at the point of contact. No magical sparks, but his thumb rested against her pulse point. He could feel it hammering.
“The sauce will burn,” she said.
He released her and turned to stir the pot. Behind him, she continued her assault on organized cooking, adding ingredients by instinct rather than recipe. The kitchen filled with the scent of garlic and herbs and far too much oregano.
They moved around each other carefully. Items passed back and forth without a word. When she reached for the salt, he had it in her hand before she finished the gesture. When he needed a spoon, she handed one over.
“How long have you been a demon lawyer?” she asked, draining the pasta.
“Four hundred and ninety-seven years.”
“That’s very specific.”
“Precision matters in legal work.” He took the pot from her. “How long have you been a witch?”
“My whole life. It’s not exactly a career choice when you’re born with power.” She added the pasta to the sauce without measuring portions. “Though the shop is only twenty years old. Inherited it from my grandmother.”
“And the illegal moonbell gathering?”
Her spine stiffened. “Recent development. Someone needed them.”
He waited, but she offered nothing more. Fair enough. He had his own secrets. They were temporary allies, nothing more.
The pasta was, predictably, inedible. Too much salt, too much spice, sauce simultaneously burnt and undercooked. They sat at the small table, poking at their plates in silence.
“It’s not that bad,” Hazel said.
“It’s terrible.”
“Yeah.” She pushed a noodle around her plate. “I’m better with potions than pasta. Potions have specific instructions.”
“So do recipes.”
“Recipes are suggestions. Potions are requirements. There’s a difference.”
A weight landed on the table. Azrael padded between their plates, delicately selected a piece of chicken from the sauce, and ate it with dramatic relish.
“Traitor,” Hazel said. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I’m on the side of edible food.” Azrael licked his whiskers. “This barely qualifies.”
“Everyone’s a critic.” But she was smiling, tension breaking.
Something shifted in Marcus’s expression — the barest easing of his jaw, like he’d been clenching it for centuries and had just remembered how to stop. “Perhaps tomorrow I should cook.”
“Deal. But I’m still in charge of seasoning.”
“Absolutely not.”
