Levi watches me. “You look very domestic right now.”
I glare at him over my shoulder. “I will dump this entire pot over your head.”
He grins, unfazed. “Worth it.”
When the soup is finally done, we both lean over the pot, inhaling the rich, warm aroma. Levi ladles a small spoonful, blowing on it gently before holding it out to me.
“Here. Taste,” he orders, already knowing I’ll obey.
I sip straight from the spoon—apparently that’s who I am now: a man in a high school gym, taste-testing soup.
It’s…good. Decadent, even. Warm, rich, with the faintest zing at the end.
“Well?” Levi leans closer, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
“It’s acceptable,” I say, only to watch his face scrunch in offense.
He rolls his eyes, then reaches out to wipe at my lower lip. My breath catches and time stops for something as small as his thumb. Millennia and it’s still the simplest touch that undoes me. His eyes flick down, just briefly, as if he’s thinking about something he shouldn’t say out loud.
“There was a little…” he murmurs, then pops his thumb into his mouth, tasting the soup like it’s nothing.
But it’s not nothing.
Not to me.
The space between us feels tighter now. I clear my throat,desperate to summon a single coherent thought, but my brain is short-circuiting. Levi grins, humming like he didn’t just rearrange my entire existence with one careless touch.
• • •
The crowd buzzeslike the fate of the universe hangs on a cooking contest. I stand beside Levi, arms crossed, trying to appear nonchalant even though I’m entirelytooinvested in soup, of all things.
The school principal, Mr. Alderson, a self-proclaimed soup aficionado with an unfortunate comb-over and a penchant for poorly timed dad jokes, taps the mic, sending a shrill sound through the gym.
“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” he announces with the bravado of a bad awards-show host. “Third place goes to…” He pauses, flipping the card like he’s revealing a plot twist. “Team Lemon Thyme!”
Polite applause sounds through the crowd. I glance at Levi, who gives me an encouraging nudge like we’re in the running for something important.
“Second place,” Mr. Alderson continues, “goes to…” Another unnecessarily long pause. “Team Death Becomes Soup!”
Levi raises both hands in the air, victorious.
I blink. “I see we filed ‘Death Becomes Soup’ without counsel,” I hiss under my breath.
He grins unapologetically. “Surprise.”
Before I can process, Levi grabs my hand…my hand…and drags me forward. I stumble slightly, disoriented by the unexpected attention and the casual way his fingers fit around mine.
Mr. Alderson hands us the tiniest trophy, no taller than an espresso mug, topped with a golden ladle. It’s almost insulting, but Levi holds it like we’ve won gold at the Olympics. “I’d like tothank my sous-chef,” he declares dramatically, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Couldn’t have done it without his impeccable knife skills and emotional support.”
I roll my eyes in protest but can’t help but smile.
“And now,” Mr. Alderson says, straightening his tie like he’s preparing to be camera ready. “Our first-place winner, for theninthyear in a row…” He pauses, though no one appears surprised. “Irene Beaumont!”
Applause erupts as Irene steps forward, accepting her oversized trophy with the same expression she uses to hand me death certificates. No fuss. Just pure, quiet professionalism.
I watch her, a wave of pride settling in my chest.
I’ve worked beside Irene for years, yet I’ve never seen her like this. Cheered for. Celebrated. It’s…instructive. Not because she doesn’t deserve it, but because I’ve never thought to ask about this part of her life. Proximity isn’t knowledge, and she’s been here, building a legacy, soup trophy by soup trophy, and I never even knew.
