Chapter 3
Jason
Monday night, and I'm on my fourth batch of vindaloo.
The first one wasn't spicy enough. I followed the recipe exactly, measured every spice, did everything right—and it came out tasting like something you'd get at a mid-range chain restaurant. Fine for normal people. Not fine for someone who said ghost pepper was a starting point.
The second batch had the right heat but the spice balance was off. Too much cumin, not enough coriander, and I got heavy-handed with the garam masala at the end. It tasted like heat without complexity, like I was just trying to burn someone's mouth instead of actually feeding them.
The third was almost perfect. Beautiful color, layered flavors, the kind of slow-building heat that makes you sweat but keeps you reaching for another bite.
Then I got distracted thinking about the way Ash's thumb felt pressed against my pulse, and I burned the onions.
The whole thing tasted bitter underneath, a charred note that ruined everything else.
This one. This one is going to be right.
I'm sweating over the stove, adjusting heat levels, tasting obsessively from a small spoon I keep rinsing between samples.
The kitchen smells like toasted spices and coconut milk and desperation.
A fine sheen of sweat covers my forehead, partly from the steam and partly from nerves I can't quite shake.
Vaughn wandered through an hour ago, took one look at the multiple pots on the stove, the scattered spice containers, the manic energy radiating off me, raised an eyebrow, and wisely said nothing.
Just grabbed a beer from the fridge and retreated to the garage like a man who knows when to pick his battles.
It's just lunch. It's just food. It's just—
It's Ash. It's cooking for Ash, who said he likes spicy food with a look in his eyes that made it sound like a challenge. Who looked at me like I was something worth looking at, worth touching, worth coming back for.
I add another dried ghost pepper to the pot, crushing it between my fingers first to release the oils. My hands have gone slightly numb from handling chilies for hours, which is probably not great, but I'll deal with that later.
The back door opens and Robin stumbles in, still wearing his catering blacks, looking like he's been through a war. There's something that might be powdered sugar in his hair and a stain on his sleeve that's definitely food-related but I can't identify from here.
"I never want to see another macaron as long as I live," he groans, collapsing onto one of the bar stools with theatrical exhaustion. His head hits the counter with a thunk.
"You say that every time."
"This time I mean it." His voice is muffled against the wood. "Twelve hundred macarons, Jason. Twelve hundred. Some politician's retirement party. Four hundred guests who apparently each needed three macarons to feel special about themselves."
"Did they at least tip well?"
"The tip was excellent." He lifts his head just enough to talk properly. "My will to live is gone, but the tip was excellent. I'm going to take the money and buy something stupid and impractical. Maybe a new stand mixer. Maybe a plane ticket to somewhere that's never heard of French pastry."
He lifts his head fully, sniffing the air. His nose wrinkles, then his eyebrows go up.
"What are you making? It smells amazing. Like, really amazing. Like someone who knows what they're doing amazing."
"Nothing. Just practicing."
Robin's eyes narrow. He looks at the stove—four different pots, various stages of completion, one of them definitely a failed experiment I haven't gotten around to throwing out yet.
Looks at the counter—spice containers everywhere, multiple cutting boards stained with different colors, a small mountain of dirty dishes I've been ignoring.
Looks at me—sweaty, anxious, probably wild-eyed and covered in turmeric stains.
"Jason. What is all this?"
"I told you. Practicing."
"Practicing what? Feeding an army? Opening a restaurant? Achieving some kind of Indian food enlightenment?"
I stir the vindaloo, not meeting his eyes. The sauce is looking good—deep red, slightly glossy, steam rising in fragrant waves.
"Indian food. For tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." Robin sits up straighter, suddenly alert. "Lunch." His voice goes flat with realization. "
"Vindaloo. With homemade naan, basmati rice, raita, mango chutney, and—"
"For Ash."
My face heats. I can feel the blush spreading up my neck, and there's no way to hide it when my skin always shows everything.
"For everyone. It's a group lunch."
"Jason." Robin gets up from the stool, comes around the counter to stand next to me. His expression is somewhere between amused and concerned, which is not a combination I enjoy seeing directed at me. "You made four batches of vindaloo for my brother."
He reaches over and turns off the burner. I make a noise of protest, but he's already stepping between me and the stove.
"Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"You're stress-cooking. You only stress-cook when you're anxious about something, and the only new variable is Ash.
" Robin's voice is gentle but firm, the voice of someone who's known me long enough to see through my bullshit.
"I'm not blind, Jason. I saw how you looked at him yesterday.
I saw how you blushed when he touched your wrist. I saw you watching the door for ten minutes after he left. "
I keep my eyes on the pot. The sauce is perfect—rich and red, complex layers of spice, exactly the right consistency. Tomorrow I'll make a fresh batch, but at least now I know I can do it right. At least now I know it's possible.
"He said he likes spicy food," I say quietly. "I wanted to make something he'd enjoy. Something that would impress him. Is that so wrong?"
"That's sweet. It's also terrifying." Robin leans against the counter, arms crossed over his stained shirt.
His expression has gone serious in a way I rarely see from him.
Robin is all jokes and deflection, all easy smiles and easier exits.
This version—direct, worried—means he thinks I need to hear something I won't like.
"Jason, I need to tell you something about my brother."
"I know he's dangerous."
"That's not—" Robin sighs, running a hand through his powdered-sugar hair.
"Okay, yes, he's dangerous. He's killed people.
Probably a lot of people, doing whatever classified shit he was doing for five years.
He can assess a room for threats in under two seconds and probably knows six ways to kill someone with a fork. But that's not what I'm worried about."
I finally look at him. "Then what?"
"Ash doesn't do relationships." Robin's face is serious, more serious than I've ever seen him.
"He never has. Not real ones, not lasting ones.
The longest I've ever seen him with anyone was maybe a month, and that was back in high school.
Some guy on the wrestling team. Ash liked him, I think.
Actually liked him, not just wanted to fuck him.
And then one day it was just over, and Ash never mentioned him again. "
"Maybe he just hadn't met the right person."
"That's exactly what I was afraid you'd say.
" Robin runs both hands through his hair now, frustrated.
"Look, it's not his fault. Our parents were a disaster.
Dad cheated constantly—like, constantly, different woman every few months, barely even tried to hide it.
Mom pretended not to notice because noticing would mean doing something about it.
They'd have screaming fights at two in the morning and then act like everything was fine over breakfast. Neither of them knew how to be a real partner.
They just... performed at it, badly, and made each other miserable for twenty years before finally divorcing. "
"That doesn't mean Ash—"
"It means neither of us learned what a healthy relationship looks like.
" Robin's voice cracks slightly, vulnerability bleeding through that he quickly covers with a wry smile.
"I cope by keeping everything casual—it's just sex, never feelings, never expectations, never sticking around long enough for anyone to disappoint me.
Ash copes by not letting anyone close enough to matter.
We're both fucked up about it, just in different directions. "
I turn back to the stove, start cleaning up. Scraping the test batches into containers, wiping down surfaces. My hands need something to do, something to focus on.
"It's just lunch," I say.
"Is it though?"
No. It's not. It's me wanting to feed him, take care of him, show him that someone can be soft for him.
It's me lying awake last night imagining his hands on me, his voice in my ear, the weight of his body pressing me down.
It's me feeling something slot into place when he touched me, something that felt like recognition.
"I'm not expecting anything," I say. "I know he's not going to fall in love with me over curry."
"But you want him to."
I don't answer. We both know the truth.
Robin sighs, leaning his hip against the counter. "He takes what he wants, enjoys it completely, and then moves on. It's not mean—he's always honest about it, never promises more than he can give, at least from what I've heard. But that's who he is. That's who he's always been."
"So what, I'm just supposed to not feel anything?"
"I'm saying go into it with your eyes open.
" Robin puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently.
"Have fun tomorrow. Flirt with him. Maybe get spectacularly fucked if you're lucky—and from what I've heard, you'd be lucky.
People don't tend to complain about Ash in that department.
But don't start planning your mating ceremony. "
"Lions don't have ceremonies."
"You know what I mean."