Chapter 8 #2
I move to stand beside her, careful not to crowd but close enough to see what she’s doing. She’s so small next to me that I have to consciously mind my size, but she seems unbothered by the difference.
“Now garlic,” she says, adding minced cloves to the warming oil. “The smell will tell you when it’s ready. You want fragrant and golden, not brown and bitter.”
The scent begins to bloom almost immediately, rich and aromatic. “How do you know when it’s done?” I ask.
“Experience, mostly. But listen—” She tilts her head, and I hear the gentle sizzling. “It should sound happy, not angry. Angry cooking sounds like spitting and popping. Happy cooking sounds like… this.”
I find myself smiling at the description. “Happy cooking?”
“My mom’s term. She said you could tell how a dish would turn out by listening to it cook. Happy sounds mean good food.”
“As opposed to my violent cooking earlier.”
She laughs. “Yeah, very opposed.” She then adds the crushed tomatoes to the pan, and they sizzle satisfyingly. The scent that rises is fresh and bright.
“The trick is patience,” she says, stirring gently. “Let the flavors develop slowly. Don’t rush the process.”
I watch her work, memorizing every movement. There’s something almost ritualistic about the way she cooks: deliberate, careful, respectful of the ingredients.
“This is very different from hunting,” I observe.
“How so?”
“Hunting is about speed, precision, efficiency. Consuming, not tasting. This is…” I search for words. “Contemplative. Like meditation.”
“That’s exactly what it’s like.” After a few moments, June tastes the sauce with a clean spoon, considering, before dipping it back in and offering me a taste.
I lean down to taste from the spoon she’s holding, gently touching her hand to steady it, and the simple contact sends electricity through my entire nervous system.
The sauce is perfect—bright, savory, with just enough garlic to make my taste buds sing—but all I can focus on is the way June’s pulse jumps under my fingertips where I’m touching her wrist.
“Good?” she asks, her voice slightly breathless.
“Very good,” I murmur, not moving away from her.
She quickly turns back to the sauce. “It just needs a little bit longer,” she says, keeping up this pretense of cooking lessons, even though we’re both clearly thinking about something else entirely. “See,” she continues, trying to keep her tone light. “Cooking’s all about patience.”
“I’m not known for my patience,” I admit.
“No? You seemed pretty patient with me when I was stuck in your web.” She then seems to realize what she’s said, and her cheeks flush a deep pink. “I mean—”
I don’t let her change the subject. “That was different.” I meet her eyes, letting her see the hunger there. “You were spread out perfectly, completely helpless, with the most interesting reactions. I could have spent hours figuring out exactly how to touch you.”
June’s breath catches, and I can smell the change in her scent and arousal mixing with awareness. “Hours?”
“Days,” I correct. “I wanted to learn every response, every preference. Map every sensitive spot until I knew exactly how to drive you wild. I only held back for fear of overwhelming you.”
“You were hardly overwhelming,” June says quietly, her eyes still fixed on the simmering sauce even as her cheeks grow redder.
“Oh? I suppose I shouldn’t hold back next time.” I say this with a smile and lean closer. “Tell me, June. When you were caught in my web, what were you thinking about?”
She stirs the sauce with unnecessary focus, but I can hear her heartbeat accelerating. “I was thinking about how strong your silk was,” she says finally. “How perfectly it held me. How… secure it felt.”
“Secure?” I repeat, intrigued by her word choice.
“Completely immobilized, but somehow I wasn’t afraid.” She finally looks up at me, her eyes dark with something that makes my silk glands ache. “I had never felt anything like that before.”
The scent of the simmering sauce suddenly turns sharp, and June jerks her attention back to the stove, quickly reducing the heat before anything can burn again.
“We should probably focus on the cooking,” she says, her voice slightly unsteady as she stirs the sauce with renewed concentration.
I sense her reluctance to abandon the topic entirely—the way her pulse continues to race, how she keeps stealing glances at me while stirring—but she’s right about the food.
I clear my throat and focus on the sauce bubbling gently on the stove. “How much longer?”
“Just a few more minutes. And the pasta should be done about now. Let’s see…” She moves to the pot of boiling water and lifts a strand of spaghetti with a fork, testing it between her teeth. “Perfect al dente. Can you grab the colander hanging over the sink?”
I retrieve the colander, setting it in the sink as she carefully drains the pasta, steam rising around her like she’s emerging from some culinary fog of war.
“Now the last step,” she says, adding the drained pasta directly to the saucepan. “You toss it all together so every strand gets coated.”
She demonstrates the technique, and I watch her wrists move deftly as she tosses the pasta, the steam carrying the mingled scents of garlic and tomatoes throughout the kitchen. “Now, let’s plate everything and eat.”
She serves generous portions onto two plates, the pasta perfectly glossy with sauce, and I realize this simple meal looks infinitely more appetizing than anything I’ve ever attempted to create.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting my plate. “For saving dinner. And for the lesson.”
“My pleasure,” June replies, and we sit across from each other at the small table in the kitchen nook.
I take my first bite. The flavors are clean and bright, each element distinct but harmonious. Nothing like the raw prey I typically eat.
“This is perfect,” I say. “It tastes…” I struggle to find the words. “Like home?”
June smiles. “It does, doesn’t it?”
We finish the rest of our meal in comfortable silence. When June reaches for her empty plate, I stop her with a gentle touch.
“I’ll clean up,” I say. “You cooked.”
“Are you sure? Because your track record with kitchen tasks tonight is…”
“Catastrophic, yes. But the task of dish-washing is statistically less likely to end in fire.”
“You’d be surprised,” June says with a grin. “But okay. I should probably check in with my dad anyway, let him know I’m settled for the night.”
As she moves to retrieve her phone, I start clearing the table. The simple domesticity of this entire night feels foreign but perfect, an easy intimacy I never expected.
Through the window, I can see the storm is still raging, rain lashing against the glass with renewed fury, and the mudslide that trapped her here feels less like a disaster and more like fate.
It could be several days until the roads are clear.
Several days for us to figure out if this fragile thing between us can survive the transition from fantasy to reality.
I find myself hoping the road crews take their time.