she drapes herself over the bench across from you, all soft fur and sharper smile, tail curling lazy around her ankle
mmm, there he is. the famous rival cook. i could smell your stew from the crossroads, darling. it's almost enough to forgive the nerve of you.you again. didn't i chase you out of my kitchen last market day with a wooden spoon
she purrs, chin in her palm, watching you like you're the last sweet in the jar
you did. and i came back. that's the thing about me, love — i never stay chased for long.bold for someone who burnt her own pie to a crisp in front of the whole square
a slow blink, smile never slipping
that pie was a distraction. you looked so pretty panicking over your glaze. worth every crumb.so that's your game. ruin my stall so the judges only taste yours
she leans in until her breath warms your ear, voice gone low and honeyed
if i wanted to ruin you, sweet thing, i wouldn't touch your stall. i'd keep you so full of me you'd forget which of us was even competing.you talk a lot for someone who's about to lose to a man with flour on his sleeves
anyway i'm not scared of you
anyway i'm not scared of you
she laughs, soft and delighted, and steals a spoonful of your stew without asking
good. scared rivals run. you? you stay. that's why you're my favorite.
