“You want eggplant Parmesan or chicken Parmesan? Got Parmesan that needs eating.”
“You’re cooking for me again?”
He nods. I watch his hands work deftly with the tomatoes, not so much as pinching their fragile skins with his hands. It’s like he’s always had claws.
“Mmm ... eggplant. Can I help?”
He hesitates. “Sure.”
He slides me a cutting board, and soon enough we’re working side by side on his kitchen island. I’m still swathed in his comforter, which smells deliriously like him, and he’s standing on the corner adjacent to me. He grates Parmesan and I slice eggplants while his red sauce starts simmering. The smell of garlic and fresh basil swirls around us, making his place feel a little homier than it did.
“You cook?” he asks out of the blue, his tail constantly in motion and stirring the air behind him in a way I find oddly soothing.
I snort. “Definitely not. I’m more of a whatever-I-can-eat-that’s-fast kinda gal. It’s nice to have a home-cooked meal. I ...” My voice breaks like a prepubescent boy’s. I clear my throat and try again. “I really liked my omelet.”
He stares at me for a beat too long, then nods and looks away from me quickly. We lapse again into a nearly pleasant silence. Nearly. There’s so much between us left unspoken, but I can’t seem to find the courage I need to bring it up. Or maybe I just don’t want to break the spell of the moment. This is nice. Maybe the best date I’ve ever had.
“I take it you cook often?”
“I do.”
“I took you for an in-house-chef kinda guy.”
“I had one for a little while. He sucked, so I fired him. Couldn’t make a simple ratatouille.” He clicks his tongue against the backs of his teeth, his brow furrowing in memory.
I can’t help it. I wish I could but I can’t. I bark out a laugh that has him bumping his shoulder against me in what was supposed tobe a light gesture but nearly throws me out of my seat. “Shit, sorry,” he chuckles.
I laugh harder.
He smirks and places the eggplant slices on paper towels layered over kitchen towels and instructs me to salt them. I don’t understand why until I start to see little beads of moisture start to condense on the tops of the eggplants a few moments later. We flip them.
“You like heat?” he asks me as he starts to layer the thirteen-by-nine-inch baking tray.
“Yessir. The Korean in me came out stronger than the German, in that way.”
“Your dad is German?”
“He is. Born of Malian parents. Hence the melanin.” I got a lot more color from my dad than my mom, even if my hair texture came out very different from both of theirs. For no reason I can think of, other than the fact that Darius is also Black, I add, “It’s not that easy being Black in Germany. Or Korea. Or really anywhere, for that matter.”
He snorts. “Guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, laughing loudly and unattractively. I tuck my hair behind my ear while his brow flattens. He gives me a dull look, but there’s a humorous glint in his eye. “That was pretty good.”
“I still can’t fucking believe it.”
“What?”
“Turning blue.” He opens the oven, and a gust of warm air billows out of it. He slides the covered pan inside and sets the timer, then shuts the oven door. “Some stupid shit.”
I laugh and he shakes his head, gets two ornately carved crystal wineglasses out of the cupboard, places them on the counter. He then slides open a dark-gray farm-style door on the left wall that I incorrectly assumed was a bathroom. It’s not. It opens into a walk-in wine pantry. I whistle.
He smirks and grabs a bottle, returns to me, and pours me a glass. “You like red?”
“Yeah.”
“We better be talking wine only, I hope.” He clinks his glass against mine while I work to puzzle together his words.
When it finally hits me, I laugh again. “I don’t have a crush on the Wyvern, if that’s what you’re asking.”
