CHAPTER 73: COOKING TOGETHER [IV]

Her brow arched. "At what?"

"Cooking. Eating. Not stabbing me."

She shook her head slowly, lips twitching. "...Idiot."

But she didn’t sound cold anymore. And I didn’t feel like correcting her.

My arms still ached, my throat still stung from smoke, but there was a strange satisfaction in knowing we had made this together.

Freya leaned back, hands folded in her lap, gaze drifting toward the stove. Her hair had fallen completely loose, flour still dusting her sleeves. She looked nothing like the noble warrior I first knew — no polished steel, no sharp command in her voice. Just a girl tired and warm from firelight.

I smiled to myself and stretched. "Well, Lady Freya. Not only did we survive the kitchen, we made something edible. Truly, a miracle."

She gave me a sidelong glance, then let out the smallest sigh. "...It was not awful."

"From you, that’s the same as saying it was amazing."

Her lips pressed together, but the faintest smile curved at the corners.

The kitchen smelled of smoke, herbs, and warm bread.

For the first time all day, I didn’t feel like I was sparring with her. For the first time, it felt like we were on the same side — even if only for one meal.

***

The soup was finished cooking, the bread was cooling, and the smoke finally started to thin out of the rafters. The kitchen no longer felt like a battlefield — more like the quiet after one.

Freya wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron and moved toward the cupboard. Her steps were deliberate, her chin tilted as if the act of reaching for plates was just as noble a duty as wielding a sword.

I leaned against the counter, still stirring the last lazy circles in the pot. "Ah, the noble lady sets the table herself. Truly, history will sing of this moment."

Her head turned, her eyes cutting to me like a blade. "If you keep talking, you will not live to eat."

I pressed a hand to my chest. "Threats, so soon? And here I thought the bread softened you."

Her cheeks tinged pink, but she ignored me, pulling down a stack of mismatched plates. Some were chipped, some stained, all clearly beneath her standards. She stared at them for a long moment, lips pressing thin.

"Not good enough?" I asked.

"They are... adequate," she said finally, though the word came out as though it hurt her tongue.

I grinned. "Adequate plates for adequate cooks. Seems fitting."

She set the plates on the table with practiced care, spacing them evenly, even measuring the distance with her eye.

It was absurd, really — anyone else would have just tossed them down, but not her. Even here, even now, she treated it like ceremony.

I grabbed the wooden cups from the shelf and plunked them down beside her neat arrangement. Crooked. Uneven. One even upside down.

Her eyes narrowed immediately. "Fix that."

"I thought rustic charm was in fashion."

"Fix. It."

With exaggerated sighs, I straightened the cups. She watched me closely, like a hawk making sure prey didn’t escape. Only when I placed the last one properly did she nod and return to the cupboard for spoons.

I trailed after her, leaning just close enough to be annoying. "You know, you’re surprisingly good at this."

"At what?" she asked without turning.

"Pretending we’re civilized."

She froze for half a second, then spun, pressing a spoon into my chest with enough force to make me take a step back. "Put these on the table."

I clutched them dramatically. "A noble lady giving orders? Unheard of."

"Now," she snapped, but there was a faint light in her eyes. Not anger — something else.

I set the spoons on the table, this time lining them neatly, just to prove I could. When she saw them, her brows lifted, as if she hadn’t expected me to listen.

"See?" I said, leaning back in my chair. "I can behave."

"Doubtful," she muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

The table was coming together now. Crooked, chipped, messy—but ours. A pot of soup in the middle, bread on a rough wooden board, cups waiting. The kind of table you’d find in a home, not a hall.

Freya stood back, wiping her hands again, eyes scanning everything as if judging a battlefield plan. Then she gave the smallest nod. "It will do."

I stretched out, folding my arms behind my head. "Careful. You’re starting to sound almost content."

She glanced at me, lips curving faintly. "...Don’t ruin it."

***

The table was finally ready — soup steaming, bread sitting proudly in the middle, cups and spoons laid out (well, some neat, some crooked).

A soft thump drew my attention.

Nyx landed on the counter, fur sleek and black as spilled ink, tail swishing with quiet arrogance. His violet eyes scanned the spread like a king inspecting tribute. Then he sniffed the air and let out a long, theatrical sigh.

"So this is what you call food," he drawled, voice smooth and disdainful. "Remarkable. I expected smoke and ashes, not... soup."

Freya stiffened, her hand frozen halfway through brushing flour off her sleeve. "You’re not supposed to be on the counter."

Nyx ignored her, of course, curling his tail around himself as he sat. His eyes glinted in the firelight. "The nanny will want to see this. She won’t believe it otherwise."

My grin spread slow and wicked. "Go ahead. Call her. Let the world witness our miracle."

Freya’s eyes widened. "Don’t you dare—"

Too late. Nyx leapt down, tail high, and padded toward the doorway. He turned his head once, just enough for his voice to carry back into the kitchen.

"Dinner is served!" he announced, his tone smug and far too loud. "Nanny! Come see what your little disasters have cooked!"

Heavy footsteps echoed almost instantly from the hall.

Freya’s face went pale. "No."

"Yes," I whispered, grinning.

Nyx sat proudly in the doorway, licking one paw as if nothing in the world pleased him more than summoning judgment down upon us.