“Competitive soup-making?”
“Correct.” She returns to her stirring, unbothered. I watch her for a beat, trying to reconcile the woman who reminds me to sign invoices with the one aggressively seasoning a pot of what I assume is some form of liquid gold.
“Is this…a hobby?” I ask cautiously.
She sighs, setting her spoon down with the patience of someone indulging a fussy child. “It’s not a hobby, Hayden. It’s alegacy.”
I stare. “A legacy.”
She gestures vaguely around the room. “I’ve been champion eight years running.”
I glance back at Levi, who’s managed to smear tomato paste on his shirt without noticing. My chest tightens. This weird mortal nonsense? It feels…good. I turn back to Irene. “Lucky number nine, then,” I say, genuinely meaning it.
She huffs like luck has nothing to do with it, already back to stirring with the intensity of someone plotting world domination. Maybe that’s what I’ve missed all these years. The subtle pride mortals take in small victories.
I return to our table to find Levi elbow deep in another pile of assorted herbs, his fingers dusted with something green and fragrant. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth like he’s been waiting for me to come back. “Mingling with the competition, huh?”
“Apparently, Irene leads a double life.”
He laughs, shaking his head as he continues combining ingredients. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“I think she’s plotting to murder the competition,” I deadpan, picking up the knife again. “Thought you should know.”
Levi snorts, shaking his head as he moves around the table, brushing a little too close to me as he reaches for a basket of onions. His presence clings to me like a memory I haven’t earned yet. I don’t move. Not right away.
“Focus, Funeral Guy,” he says, nudging me with his hip. “We’ve got soup to make.”
“And what exactly are we making?” I glance at the haphazard collection of ingredients—root vegetables, fresh herbs, a pot simmering with something golden.
“Carrot ginger with coconut milk and hint of lime.” He says it like I should know better. “It’s cozy, comforting, and has a kick at the end. Kinda like me.”
“Ambitious for a root vegetable,” I murmur, arching an eyebrow. “We’re comparing ourselves to soup now?”
“Only the best do.”
I fight a smile. “Alright, Martha Stewart. What’s next?”
Levi stands beside me now, arm touching mine. “Okay, I need you to dice these onions. Small pieces. Uniform. I know you’re good at that part,” he teases.
I nod my head, my knife moving with practiced precision. The motion is oddly calming.
“Okay…that’s perfect,” Levi says, leaning in, watching me work, his chin on my shoulder. “Are you a secret chef?”
“Hardly,” I reply dryly. “I’ve just had alotof time to perfect basic motor skills.”
His laugh sends a ripple of joy through me. As I slide the onions into a bowl, Levi reaches for it at the same time. We touch, just briefly, but it sends another jolt straight through me. I freeze for half a second, my breath hitching, but Levi smiles.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “That’s how people fall in love in rom-coms. Accidental hand touches while cooking.”
I snort, trying to shake off the way my heart just tripped over itself. “Good thing this isn’t a rom-com, then.”
“That’s yet to be determined,” he says, his grin widening.
We move in a rhythm that feels too easy. Levi works with reckless abandon while I handle my own culinary duties withsurgeon-like precision. He tosses things into the pot without measuring; I line ingredients up like chess pieces.
And it works.
“Okay, stir this,” Levi instructs, handing me a wooden spoon. Our fingers find each other again, the touch deliberate this time. I take the spoon, stirring the pot as instructed, and pretend my heart isn’t racing.
