Let's cook together

The dining hall was eerily quiet now, the once-bustling chaos reduced to the faint clinking of plates being cleared by staff. I sat alone at the counter, staring at the empty plates left behind by my family.

The faint scent of the food I'd poured my heart into still lingered in the air, taunting me. My stomach grumbled loudly, a cruel reminder of my mistake: cooking for wolves and expecting scraps. 

I slumped against the counter, poking at a crumb left on one of the plates as bitterness settled in my chest. They didn't even feel bad about it.

Rowena had waddled out of here complaining about being too full to walk, and my moms were no better, laughing as they headed back to their room.

Meanwhile, here I was hungry, grumpy, and alone. 

The thought of whipping something else up just for myself felt exhausting, and yet my stomach had other plans. I sighed and was about to push myself up from the stool when a low, familiar voice cut through the quiet. 

"Still here?" 

I froze. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up before I even turned to see her. 

The mafia girl. 

She stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the counter with her arms crossed. Her dark eyes glinted with amusement, and that infuriatingly confident smirk was back.

The way she looked at me it was as if she could see every thought running through my head. 

"I could ask you the same thing," I said, trying to sound casual, though my heart had started a ridiculous sprint in my chest. 

She shrugged, stepping closer, her movements fluid and deliberate. "I like to stay behind sometimes. Quieter this way." 

"Well, lucky you," I muttered. "I didn't even get to eat." 

Her smirk deepened, and she raised an eyebrow. "The chef didn't eat her own food? That's tragic." 

I huffed, folding my arms. "Tragic is having a family who eats like they've been starved for weeks." 

Her low chuckle sent a shiver down my spine. "Sounds like you need a better plan next time." 

"Thanks for the insight, Captain Obvious." 

For a moment, I thought she'd leave it at that and walk away, like she always seemed to do. But instead, she surprised me. 

"Come on," she said, nodding toward the open kitchen. "Let's fix that." 

I blinked. "What?" 

"Let's cook something," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

"You—you want to cook? With me?" 

Her smirk softened into something almost playful. "Unless you've got a better idea. Or are you just going to sit here and starve?" 

The logical part of my brain told me to decline, that this was probably a bad idea for reasons I couldn't even articulate. But the hungrier, more impulsive part of me was already moving. 

"Fine," I said, standing and brushing off my skirt. "But don't get in my way." 

She chuckled again, following me into the kitchen. 

The kitchen was quiet now, most of the other stations clean and empty. Under the warm glow of the overhead lights, it felt oddly intimate, as if the space had shrunk down to just the two of us. 

I grabbed an apron and tied it around my waist, glancing at her as she leaned against the counter, watching me with an infuriating mix of curiosity and amusement. 

"Well?" I said, raising an eyebrow. "Are you going to help, or are you just here to stare?" 

Her smirk returned as she reached for an apron and tied it around her waist. "Lead the way, sunshine." 

Sunshine? The nickname made my cheeks heat, but I ignored it, turning my attention to the ingredients. 

"What are we making?" she asked, her voice low and smooth as she moved to stand beside me. 

"I don't know yet," I admitted, scanning the pantry for inspiration. "Something quick. I'm starving." 

"Quick, huh? Sounds like pasta." 

I glanced at her, surprised. "You cook?" 

She shrugged, her smirk softening into something more genuine. "I know my way around a kitchen. Don't forget I'm a chef" 

"Guess we'll see about that." 

We settled on a simple pasta dish with a rich, garlicky tomato sauce. I focused on chopping the vegetables while she set a pot of water to boil.

For someone who carried herself like she owned the world, she moved around the kitchen with surprising ease. Her hands were steady as she minced garlic, her knife gliding through the cloves with practiced precision. 

"Not bad," I admitted grudgingly, watching her out of the corner of my eye. 

"Don't sound so surprised, you saw me cook before don't act so dramtic" she said, smirking as she glanced at me. 

As we worked, the space between us seemed to shrink. Every time I reached for an ingredient, she was already there, passing it to me before I could ask.

When I stirred the sauce, she added a pinch of salt without needing to be told. It was strange almost like we'd done this a hundred times before. 

But there was a tension, too, humming just beneath the surface. Every time her hand brushed against mine, my pulse skipped.

When she leaned over to taste the sauce, her shoulder brushed mine, and I swore I forgot how to breathe for a moment. 

"Good," she said after tasting it, her voice softer now. 

I cleared my throat, trying to focus on plating the pasta instead of the way her presence seemed to fill the entire kitchen. 

Finally, the dish was ready fresh pasta coated in a vibrant tomato sauce, topped with grated Parmesan and a sprinkle of chopped basil. It was simple, but it smelled divine. 

I placed the plates on the counter, and we both sat down. 

"Moment of truth," she said, picking up her fork. 

I watched her take a bite, her expression unreadable as she chewed. Then, to my surprise, she smiled not her usual smirk, but something softer, more genuine. 

"It's good," she said simply. 

I smiled despite myself, finally taking a bite of my own. The flavors burst on my tongue, and I couldn't help but let out a small, satisfied hum. 

"Finally," I muttered. "Food that's actually mine." 

She chuckled softly, finishing her plate in a few bites. 

Before I could think of something else to say, she stood, untying her apron and draping it over the counter. 

"You're leaving already?" I asked, surprised. 

She glanced at me, her smirk returning. "Yeah. Got places to be." 

I opened my mouth to ask her name, but she was already walking away, her steps unhurried and confident. 

"Wait—" 

She paused at the doorway, glancing over her shoulder. 

"That was fun, sunshine," she said, her smirk widening. "See you around." 

And then she was gone, leaving me alone in the quiet kitchen, the faint scent of garlic and basil lingering in the air. 

For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the empty doorway. My stomach was finally full, but somehow, I felt hungrier than ever.