Hours into my preparations,I finally hear movement from the guest room. Bare feet on hardwood as she’s getting her bearings. I check the time and realize June’s been asleep for nearly three hours. Longer than she probably intended, but she needed the rest.
Quickly I get the stove going, intending for her to walk in on a warm home cooked meal in the making.
Instead, in the ten minutes it takes for her to get ready and make her way down the hall, I manage to do the impossible: I set the kitchen on fire.
Not literally, but close enough that the smoke detector is shrieking and there’s a concerning amount of smoke billowing from what was supposed to be boiling water.
How I managed this, I don’t know.
“Riven?” June’s voice carries from the hallway, soft and rough with sleep—or perhaps smoke inhalation. “Please tell me that the burning smell isn’t dinner.”
“Define dinner,” I call back, staring at the disaster zone that used to be my kitchen.
She appears in the doorway wearing the silk pajamas I made, and my breath catches in my throat at how perfectly the fabric drapes her frame. Her hair is mussed from sleep, and when she stretches unselfconsciously, the silk shifts in ways that make me want to wrap her in my web and never let her go.
“Oh, wow,” she says, surveying the carnage with barely contained amusement. “You’ve been busy.”
“I’m attempting something called carbonara,” I say, gesturing helplessly at the smoking disaster. “The Internet made it sound simple.”
“What happened here?”
“I’m not entirely sure. The eggs turned into rubber, the pasta became paste, and I think I may have violated several laws of physics in the process.”
June moves closer to examine the wreckage, poking at the congealed mess in the pan with a fork.
“Did you add the eggs while the pasta was still boiling?”
“Yes?”
“Well, there’s your problem. You basically made scrambled eggs with pasta bits.” She smiles up at me. “Though I’m impressed you managed to burn water. That takes real talent.”
I cross my arms and hang my head. “I don’t find this amusing.”
“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just, you’re trying so hard, and it’s kind of adorable.” She pauses, before suggesting, “How about I teach you?”
Something in my chest tightens at the offer, and I realize it’s my pride warring with practical necessity. Here I am, the one supposed to be impressing her, and she’s offering to rescue me from my own culinary incompetence.
Still, I find myself nodding slowly, accepting that perhaps learning from the mate I’m trying to impress isn’t the worst fate imaginable.
“Okay, before we begin,” June says, settling onto one of the bar stools. “Let’s start with what you know. What do you normally cook?”
“I don’t normally cook,” I admit. “Vyders usually eat their prey right off the web.”
June frowns and motions around us. “But you built this beautiful kitchen.”
“I thought I should learn. After the Great Unveiling, when I could finally interact with the outside world, I realized how many basic life skills I was missing.” I look around at the disaster I’ve created. “Though clearly I still have a long way to go.”
June slides off the stool and moves to survey the surviving ingredients on my counter. “Okay, no need to panic. You can still make a great meal out of just a few basic ingredients, so what do we have to work with here?”
“Pasta, canned tomatoes, garlic… That’s about it. I’d rather save what little remains of the eggs for breakfast.”
“Perfect. We can make basic spaghetti then.” Her hands move efficiently through the pantry, instantly locating what we need. “My mom taught me this recipe when I was twelve. It’s basically foolproof.”
“Your mother cooked with you?”
“Every weekend. Cooking together was bonding time for us.” June’s voice grows warm with memory. “She’d put on music and we’d spend the afternoon making dinner together. Some of my best childhood memories are from that kitchen.”
I try to imagine such casual intimacy, such deliberate nurturing. “That sounds… warm.”
