CHAPTER 72: COOKING TOGETHER [III]

The kitchen was too small for two people who clearly had no idea what they were doing. Smoke clung to the rafters, thick enough to sting the eyes, and the heat from the stove pressed heavy against my skin.

The soup in the pot bubbled and hissed, letting out smells both good and questionable, like a tavern meal halfway between genius and disaster.

Freya stood at the counter, sleeves rolled, hands buried in a mound of flour that looked like it had exploded on her rather than stayed where it belonged.

Her pale hair had loose strands clinging to her face, and her usually perfect posture had a stiff tension to it. She pressed her palms into the dough, slow and careful, as though the bread might strike back if she moved too quickly.

I leaned against the counter with the long spoon, pretending to supervise the bubbling pot. "You know," I said, voice cheerful, "you look almost beautiful like that."

Her head turned so fast I thought she’d fling flour everywhere. Her eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"

I pointed at her with the spoon, which dripped a bit of soup onto the floor. "Flour suits you. Better than jewelry."

For the smallest moment, her mouth parted as if to answer, but no sound came. Then she sniffed and looked down again, kneading harder than before.

"Ridiculous," she muttered.

"Not ridiculous at all," I said, stirring the soup. "It’s true. I’ve seen you wear gold, silk, even armor. But flour—ah, flour makes you look real."

She didn’t reply, but I saw her shoulders twitch, like she was fighting something. A smile maybe. Or maybe the urge to throw the dough at my face. With Freya, it was always a coin toss.

I gave the soup another stir and leaned down to sniff. The broth had changed. Less smoke, more warmth.

The carrots had softened, the onions had melted into the liquid, and the chunks of meat bobbed to the surface with bits of green herb clinging to them. It wasn’t perfect, but it smelled... good.

Hearty.

I ladled some into a small bowl, steam rising like a little ghost, and slid it across the counter toward her. "Moment of truth. Taste."

Her hands froze on the dough. Slowly, she wiped them on a rag, dusted the flour from her fingers, and lifted the spoon with an almost ceremonial seriousness. She blew once, then sipped.

Her eyes widened. Her lips pressed together. She blinked twice.

"Well?" I asked, leaning forward.

She set the spoon down carefully, too carefully. "...It isn’t terrible."

I slapped the counter in triumph. "High praise! From you, that’s basically a royal blessing."

Her cheeks turned faintly pink, though she turned back to the dough as if ignoring me would make the color vanish. "Don’t get used to it."

I grinned and took a sip myself. The broth was uneven, too salty in one mouthful, too bland in another, but it was hot, heavy, and strangely comforting. Like something you’d eat after a long day of running or fighting, when taste mattered less than warmth.

I stirred the pot again, and for a few minutes the only sounds were the bubbling soup and Freya’s palms pressing into the dough with steady rhythm. Thump, stretch, fold. Thump, stretch, fold. The smell of flour mixed with the sharp scent of yeast and the heavier smoke of the soup, creating a strange but homey cloud.

At last she spoke again, voice lower now. "You stir like a child drawing circles in dirt."

I raised an eyebrow. "And you knead like you’re interrogating the dough for secrets."

That earned me a short, sharp laugh. Not graceful, not practiced—just a small sound she hadn’t meant to let slip. She bit her lip right after, as if she regretted it.

"See? You do have a sense of humor," I said.

"Don’t flatter yourself. I was laughing at you, not with you."

"Laughter is laughter. I’ll take it."

Her hands moved more smoothly now, fingers pressing into the dough with confidence. Her cheeks were still faintly pink, but her mouth had softened.

I watched her knead, watched the way her hair fell loose around her face, watched the flour dust settle on her skin. Strange—how quickly someone could shift from looking untouchable to almost... ordinary. Human. And stranger still, how that made her seem brighter.

The bread began to take shape under her hands, a ball smooth and tight, the flour scattered like snow across the board. She lifted it carefully, setting it in a pan near the fire.

"It will rise," she said.

"Like your temper?"

Her eyes flicked to me, sharp, but then she shook her head and actually smiled. Just a little, just for a heartbeat, but it was real.

I let out a long breath, pretending to fan my face. "Careful. If you smile too much, people might mistake you for friendly."

"Unlikely," she said, but there was no heat in it.

The bread rose, the soup thickened, and time slowed in that smoky little kitchen. My arms ached from stirring, but I kept at it, feeling the wooden spoon scrape the bottom, feeling the weight of the broth resist me. Sweat dampened my forehead, the fire pressing hard against my skin.

Freya busied herself with plates and cups, her movements still precise but less rigid than before. She handed me one, her fingers brushing mine for the briefest second. Warm, flour-dusted, quick.

We sat at the rough wooden table, bowls of soup steaming, the bread cooling between us. I tore a piece off the loaf. The crust was uneven, the middle too dense, but it smelled warm, alive. I passed it to her.

She hesitated, then broke it in half, giving me the larger piece. "You stirred longer," she said simply.

"Generosity? Truly, you’re full of surprises tonight."

She ignored me and dipped her bread into the soup. I followed.

The bread was heavy, the soup salty, but together... they worked. The broth soaked into the crust, softening it, carrying the flavor deeper. I chewed slowly, savoring.

We ate like that for a while, quiet except for the clink of spoons and the crackle of the fire. The chaos of cooking had given way to something else, something calmer. Not peace exactly, but close enough to pretend.

At one point, I glanced up and caught her watching me. Not glaring, not judging. Just watching. Her eyes darted away the instant I noticed, but the warmth lingered in the air between us.

"You’re not half bad at this," I said.