13. Chapter Twelve
Chapter thirteen
I scowl as I enter the kitchen, my usual grumpy demeanor in full force. The smell hits me first—pungent garlic, earthy mushrooms, rich tomato sauce. And as I glance over the array of fresh ingredients laid out on the counter—ripe tomatoes, fragrant herbs, plump vegetables—a thrill races through me. My fingers twitch with anticipation. It’s a familiar scent, one that brings a reluctant smile to my face despite my usual morning grumpiness. Okay, who am I kidding—my regular grumpiness.
This is my domain. My sanctuary. In here, I'm not just some sullen thug. I'm an artist. A master chef. My knives flash, slicing and dicing with expert precision. Spices rain down, filling the air with intoxicating aromas. Oils sizzle in pans, the promise of succulent dishes to come.
I shuffle further into the kitchen, my shoulders hunched in my soft t-shirt. But as I survey the ingredients spread across the counter, a glimmer of excitement flickers in my chest.
Angel glances up from chopping vegetables, her eyes crinkling with amusement. "Hey there, sunshine. Ready to work your magic?"
I grunt in response, even as warmth blooms through me. Angel knows how much I love cooking, that it’s my language when words fail me.
Before her, this kitchen was my domain that few dared to enter. And while I enjoyed the solitude, sometimes I missed having a partner to enjoy the ingredients and the whole process as much as me. When Angel showed an interest, and an appetite for the fun we could have in here, it changed things for me .
We move in sync, an orchestrated dance. I drizzle olive oil in a pan, and it sizzles as Angel adds the garlic. The scent is heavenly. My hands work on autopilot, dicing, seasoning, stirring. Muscle memory takes over.
"Looking good over there," I call out gruffly, a hint of affection peeking through.
Angel laughs, her voice sparkling like champagne. "Why thank you, chef. I learned from the best."
We cook side by side for a while in silent companionship.
"This reminds me of that hole-in-the-wall place we found on the other side of the island," Angel says. "With the little Italian chef yelling at us the whole time."
I chuckle at the memory. "You thought he was gonna kick us out."
"I didn't know asking for hot sauce with pasta was such a sin!" Angel laughs. The sound wraps around me like a warm blanket.
"Speaking of which, don't burn anything this time," I warn gruffly, giving her a pointed look and gesturing at the pasta on the stove. Angel just sticks her tongue out at me in response. I have to fight to keep a straight face.
We trade stories as we cook, laughter filling the space between us.
"Who do you think is having more fun right now? Us, or Aidan on his little 'leadership outing?" I smirk, and Angel sticks out her tongue and grins, pointing at her, me and the mess we're making in the kitchen.
In Angel’s company, I find it possible to drop my prickly armor. My thoughts drift to many good memories together, her steady presence through my storms.
The sauce simmers, rich and fragrant. Angel dips her finger in for a taste, closing her eyes in bliss. Pride swells in my chest. Normally meals are my gift to her, my way of showing what I’m really shit at telling. That she’s my family, and I am hopelessly in love with her. But now it’s her time to spoil me.
As we plate the pasta, Angel squeezes my arm, a wordless thank you. I duck my head to hide my smile.
My Angel. Her smile as bright as the summer sun. Her laughter as melodic as wind chimes. She sees through my thorns to find the man within. The only one who truly understands me .
We work in syncopation, an effortless duet. The sizzle of oil in the pan, the thunk of the knife on wood. Our movements weave together like music.
As we cook, we continue to chat and joke, the conversation flowing as smoothly as our teamwork. No one makes me smile like Angel does. With her, I can be myself, thorns and all.
The kitchen comes alive with our combined passion. The rich aromas of simmering sauces mingle with the sound of our laughter.
When we finally sit to eat, I'm filled with contentment. The meal we created together nourishes so much more than just my stomach. Here with Angel, I've found the missing piece I've long searched for. My friend. My heart. My home.
"Angel, pass me the salt," I grumble, glancing over at her with a hint of affection in my tone. Though I come across as perpetually grumpy to most, Angel knows it's just a front. She's seen the real me, and she likes me for who I am.
"Here you go, chef grouchy pants," Angel says with a smirk, passing me the salt shaker. Her eyes dance with mischief, always ready with a witty response.
I shake my head, biting back a grin. Only Angel can get away with teasing me so mercilessly. With her, my prickly exterior softens. My grumpy soul has found its home.
"I think this is our best one yet," she declares after a few bites.
I nod, a smile creeping onto my face. "Not bad for an amateur chef like you."
Angel swats me with the dish towel again, but her eyes shine. We both know this meal is special.
In the kitchen, I found more than great food. I found the missing piece of myself.