“They’re popular for a reason.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“The market research shows?—”
“Isadora.” He steps closer, still holding the book. “I’m not making fun of you. I think it’s charming.”
“I’m not trying to be charming.”
“I know. That’s what makes it charming.”
We’re standing very close now. Close enough that I can see the faint sparks of red in his eyes—not his demon form emerging, just the subtle tell I’d noticed and dismissed so many times before.
“Dinner,” I say, stepping back. “I made pasta.”
“Pasta sounds wonderful.”
The meal is simple—garlic bread, a green salad, penne with homemade marinara sauce. Nothing fancy. I’m not trying to impress him.
Liar, whispers a voice in my head. I spent two hours on that sauce.
Mal eats like a man who’s been alive for centuries and learned to appreciate every meal. He compliments the food sincerely, asks about the recipe, tells me about a trattoria in Florence where he once spent three months learning Italian cuisine from a woman who turned out to be a witch.
“A witch?”
“A hedge witch. Minor powers but an excellent cook.” He tears a piece of garlic bread. “I still use her tomato sauce recipe.”
“Do you miss them? The people you’ve known?”
He considers the question seriously. “Some. There was a poet in Vienna. A shipwright in Rotterdam. A teacher in Morocco who helped me learn Arabic calligraphy.”
“You speak Arabic?”
“Among other languages. I’ve had a lot of time to learn.” He meets my eyes. “I miss them sometimes. The ones who saw me clearly. There weren’t many.”
The ones who knew what he was, I realize. The ones who didn’t run.
“And now?”
“Now there’s you.”
The words hang in the air between us.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say quietly. “I mean—unless you do something unforgivable, like criticize my teaching methods or step on my feet during the showcase.”
He laughs. “Duly noted.”
We finish dinner and clean up together in a comfortable rhythm that already feels practiced even though it’s only the second time we’ve done this. A domestic choreography that requires no instruction.
When the last dish is put away, he turns to me.
“I should probably go.”
“Probably.”
“It’s getting late.”
“It is.”
