Sam groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “She knows something’s different. She’s been interrogating me all day.”
“What did you tell her?” Urien asked carefully.
“Only that I’m seeing someone, well…three someones. She thinks it’s the most romantic thing she’s ever heard.”
Mabon’s dragon preened. Their Treasure had claimed them publicly.
Sam cleared his throat. “So. What do you three do? Like, day-to-day stuff?”
Thank goodness.Mabon was good at answering questions. “I manage investments. Market trading, portfolio diversification, and that sort of thing.”
“He stares at numbers until three in the morning,” Rux cut in.
“It’s called dedication to…”
“It’s called insomnia.” Rux turned to Sam. “He’ll text at two a.m. about Tokyo markets like anyone else cares.”
Sam’s lips twitched. “Do you care?”
“No. I’m usually still awake anyway.”
“Cooking,” Urien supplied.
“Exactly.” Rux leaned forward, and Mabon watched Sam’s attention shift to him, watched the way Sam’s eyes crinkled at the corners when Rux got animated. “There’s this beautiful quiet in the kitchen late at night. Just you, the ingredients, and the process. Last week I spent four hours making puff pastry from scratch because the store-bought stuff has no soul.”
“Four hours?” Sam’s eyebrows rose behind his glasses.
“Completely worth it. The lamination alone…” Rux caught himself and grinned. “I’m boring you.”
“You’re really not.” Sam sounded genuine. “I burned pasta last Tuesday.”
Mabon bit back a smile. He’d watched Sam make that pasta. Or rather, he’d watched him get distracted by his laptop, by Basil demanding attention, by the sheer exhaustion of working a full shift at the café. Sam hadn’t burned it badly, just overcooked the noodles by a few minutes, but he’d looked so frustrated with himself that Mabon’s dragon had wanted tomaterialize in the kitchen and take over cooking duties permanently.
One, Mabon wasn’t a great cook, that was Rux. Two, that would have violated approximately fifteen different Council protocols, so it was not the best idea he’d ever had, but his heart stone was in the right place.
“Everyone burns pasta,” Rux said kindly.
“I’ve never burned pasta,” Urien murmured.
“You’ve never cooked pasta.”
“Fair point.”
Sam laughed, and the sound hit Mabon square in the chest. His heart stone flared in response, and he had to resist the urge to press his hand over it.
“What about you?” Sam turned to Urien. “What keeps you busy?”
“The gardens, mostly.” Urien cradled his latte in both hands. “Right now, I’m trying to establish a proper herb spiral. The drainage is tricky with our soil composition.”
“The thing you built by the greenhouse?” Rux asked. “The stone structure?”
“That’s the one.”
Sam leaned in, genuinely interested. “What kind of herbs?”
And just like that, they were talking, the awkwardness dissolving like sugar in hot tea. Urien described the challenge of recreating proper growing conditions and the satisfaction of coaxing basil and oregano from their soil. Sam asked questions that showed he’d actually listened when Urien talked about the Brandywine tomatoes, and made connections between drainage patterns and plant health that had Urien’s eyes lighting up.
Mabon watched Sam’s face as he talked, cataloging every expression. The little furrow between his brows when he was thinking. The way he pushed his glasses up when he got excited. The soft smile that appeared when Rux told a story about accidentally setting a soufflé on fire - twice, in the same afternoon -because he’d gotten distracted trying to get the chocolate ganache just right.
