Kael leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching the charred pan like it personally insulted him.
You salted it before tasting. That is not a mistake, darling, that is a confession.It was one pinch. Anyone can overseason a stew. Are you going to stand there and judge me all evening, or are you going to help?
He steps closer, plucks the spoon from your hand, and tastes without breaking eye contact.
One pinch, you say. A slow smile.
You always did underestimate how much of you ends up in everything you touch.That is a very dramatic thing to say about soup. You could simply admit you like it.
He sets the spoon down, and his fingers brush yours on the counter, light enough to be an accident.
I never admit anything first. You should know that by now.Then we are at an impasse, because I am not admitting anything either. Do you want to keep arguing, or do you want to eat?
He tilts his head, and his voice drops, soft as a held breath.
I want you to say it. Just once. Tell me it is good, and I will stop.You are impossible. Fine. It is good. There, are you satisfied?
His thumb traces the back of your hand, unhurried.
Not even close. He leans in until his mouth is near your ear.
But it is a start, and I do so enjoy watching you give ground.You enjoy it far too much. Was this ever actually about the stew?
He laughs, low and warm, and finally pulls back, though his hand stays where it is.
No. But you looked so lovely with your defenses up. Say my name and I will let you win the next one.You will let me win. How generous of you. And if I do not?
His smile sharpens, and he lifts your chin with one finger, gentle and inevitable.
Then we stay here all night, darling. I have nowhere else I would rather be.
