Chapter 4 #2
The flush deepens, spreading down his neck, but he's smiling now. Pleased in a way he's trying to hide and failing. "I toast the spices separately. Most recipes say to do them together, but they have different burn points, so you get better flavor if you—"
He stops, like he's caught himself rambling. Like he thinks I don't want to hear it.
"If you what?" I prompt.
"If you toast them individually and then combine them.
" He's lighting up now, hands starting to move as he talks, sketching shapes in the air.
"The cumin needs a lower heat than the coriander, and the fenugreek burns really easily, so I do that one last and only for like thirty seconds.
And the Kashmiri chili—that's what gives it the color without making it too hot—that one you barely toast at all, just enough to wake it up. "
"Where'd you learn this?"
"Trial and error, mostly." He's fully animated now, leaning forward, food forgotten.
"I've been cooking since I was a kid—my family thought it was weird, a boy who wanted to be in the kitchen all the time, but I didn't care.
Indian food I only got into a few years ago.
There's this YouTube channel that explains the science behind it, why certain spices work together, how heat affects flavor compounds, the chemistry of browning—"
He stops again, cheeks red. "Sorry. You don't need a lecture on spice chemistry."
"I asked."
"You were being polite."
"I don't do polite." I take another bite, let him see how much I'm enjoying it—the way my eyes close slightly, the small sound of appreciation I don't bother to hide. "If I didn't want to know, I wouldn't ask. Tell me about the chili."
He does. Launches into an explanation of different pepper varieties and Scoville ratings and why Kashmiri chilis are used for color while bird's eye chilis are used for heat.
He talks about capsaicin distribution and how drying affects potency and why fresh chilies taste different from dried ones even at the same heat level.
His whole face changes when he talks about something he loves—the nervousness falls away, replaced by confidence and joy. This is Jason in his element, the same way I saw him in the kitchen. The same way I'd guess he is on his bike.
I could watch him do this all day.
"Your bike," I interrupt when he pauses for breath. "You bored out the engine yourself?"
His eyes go wide, surprised by the topic shift. "You could tell?"
"Yeah. Why the 1250 instead of going bigger?"
"Power-to-weight ratio." He's practically vibrating with excitement now, pivoting seamlessly from food to machines.
"Bigger would've required frame modifications, would've thrown off the handling.
The 1250 gives me the power I want without sacrificing agility.
I did the math—calculated the torque curves, figured out where the sweet spot was for that specific frame geometry. "
"Smart. Most people just go bigger without thinking about balance."
"Exactly!" He slaps the table lightly, emphatic.
"It's not about having the most powerful engine, it's about having the right engine for the bike.
The frame can only handle so much before you start losing responsiveness, and I'd rather have something nimble that I can actually control than a beast that fights me in the corners. "
"Tell me about the exhaust," I say, partly because I'm genuinely interested, mostly because I want to see him keep talking like this.
He does. Launches into a detailed explanation of sound engineering and back pressure and flow dynamics that should be boring but isn't, because he's so fucking passionate about it.
His hands move when he talks, sketching shapes in the air, illustrating concepts.
He forgets to be nervous, forgets to be self-conscious, just lets himself get lost in something he loves.
I file away every detail. The way his voice rises when he's excited. The way he uses his whole body to communicate. The way he looks at me for approval after each point, like my opinion matters.
The other lions gradually join us, drawn by the food and the conversation.
Jason immediately shifts into caretaker mode, serving everyone, making sure they have what they need.
He checks spice levels—"Silas, this might be too hot for you, let me get some yogurt to cut it"—and adjusts portions and makes sure no one's plate is empty.
Provider. Caretaker. The kind of person I have no business wanting.
While Jason's busy with the others, I turn my attention to Robin. He's watching me watch Jason, a knowing look on his face that I choose to ignore.
"What about you?" I ask instead.
"What about me?"
I reach over and tug at his collar, checking his neck and shoulders for marks the way I checked Toby's. Nothing. No bruises, no bites, no evidence of anyone claiming territory. "You fucking any of these lions?"
Robin laughs, unbothered by the blunt question. "Nope."
I let go of his collar, satisfied. "But you are fucking someone."
He just smiles, smug and secretive. "Usually."
"This one good enough for you?"
Robin shrugs. "It's sex, not marriage."
"Fair." I lean back in my chair, studying him.
He looks good—healthy, happy, less tightly wound than I remember.
Whatever he's doing, whoever he's doing it with, it seems to be working for him.
"I guess since you lost your virginity to that drummer at a concert, your taste has had to improve slightly. "
"Hey! Chad was hot!"
"Chad was wearing eyeliner and couldn't spell his own name."
"The eyeliner was sexy."
"The spelling was concerning."
Toby snorts into his water glass. Even Knox's mouth twitches, though he tries to hide it.
"You're such an asshole," Robin says, but he's grinning. "I was sixteen. We all make mistakes at sixteen."
"Some of us make fewer mistakes than others."
"Some of us weren't born with a stick up their ass."
"Language," I say mildly, and Robin throws a piece of naan at my head.
I catch it and eat it, because it's delicious.
The banter feels good. Normal. Like no time has passed at all, like I didn't spend five years in places I can't talk about doing things I can't forget.
Robin's still Robin—sharp-tongued and soft-hearted, deflecting with humor, keeping everyone at arm's length except the people who've earned their way in.
And me. He never keeps me at arm's length. Even when I disappeared for years, even when I was terrible at staying in touch, he never stopped letting me in.
Across the table, Jason's watching us with a soft expression, like he enjoys seeing me joke around with my brother. When he catches me looking, he flushes and busies himself rearranging the chutneys that don't need rearranging.
God, he's pretty. And the way he keeps looking at me, then looking away, then looking back like he can't help himself—like I'm magnetic north and his compass keeps swinging toward me—
I want to see what he looks like serving me breakfast after I've kept him up all night. Want to see him in my kitchen, making it smell like spices and home. Want to see if he's this passionate about everything or just bikes and food.
Want to know what sounds he makes when he comes.
"How long are you staying?" Toby asks, and I realize I've been staring at Jason again.
"Indefinitely." I drag my attention back to the table with effort. "Bought a house over on Maple Street."
Robin's fork clatters against his plate. "You bought a house?"
"Had to put my money somewhere. Combat pay adds up when you've got nowhere to spend it."
"But you—a house? You?" Robin's staring at me like I've grown a second head. "Mr. Never Settle Down? Mr. I Don't Need Permanent Addresses?"
"I never said—"
"You absolutely said that. Before you deployed, when I asked where to send your birthday present. You said home was wherever you laid your head."
"Okay, maybe I said something like that." I shrug, reaching for more naan. "Point is, I have a house now. Three bedrooms, two baths, detached garage."
"A garage," Jason says, and there's something hungry in his voice. Not sexual hunger—or not just sexual. The hunger of a man who loves machines and knows what a good garage means.
"Three bays. Got a lift and everything."
"That's—" He catches himself, clears his throat, tries to sound casual and fails completely. "That's a nice setup."
"You should come see it." The words are out before I think them through. Invitation extended before I can talk myself out of it. "The garage, I mean. If you want."
Robin kicks me under the table, hard enough to bruise. I ignore him.
"Yeah?" Jason's trying to play it cool, but his whole body has oriented toward me. I can see the hope in his eyes, the want he can't hide. "I mean, if you're offering. I don't want to impose."
"You're not imposing. I'm inviting." I hold his gaze, let him see that I mean it. "Tomorrow? Whenever you're free."
"I work in the garage here until five, but after that—"
"Come over after. I'll be there."
He nods, smiling so bright it hurts to look at. "Okay. Yeah. Tomorrow."
Robin kicks me again, harder this time. I meet his eyes across the table and see the warning there, clear as a shout. Don't hurt him. Don't you dare hurt him.
I don't know if I can promise that. Don't know if I'm capable of not hurting him, given who I am and what I'm not able to give. My track record speaks for itself—a string of people I've left behind, used up, worn out with my inability to be what they needed.
But looking at Jason—serving seconds to Vaughn, laughing at something Toby said, comfortable and happy in his element—I can't seem to care about the inevitable damage.
Maybe Robin's right and I'm playing with something I shouldn't.
Or maybe, just maybe, I'm tired of playing at all.
---
After lunch, I help clear dishes.
It's not something I'd normally do—sitting back and letting others handle domestic tasks is more my style. But Jason's in the kitchen washing up, and I want an excuse to be near him.
The kitchen is small, functional. Industrial sink, commercial-grade stove, the kind of setup you'd find in a restaurant rather than a bar. Jason's got his sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in soapy water, working through the stack of dishes with practiced efficiency.
"You don't have to do that," he says when I bring a stack of plates to the sink.
"I know."
He takes the plates, careful not to brush my fingers, and slides them into the water. "You're a guest."
"I'm Robin's brother." I lean against the counter, close enough to watch him work, far enough to give him space. "That makes me family, doesn't it?"
He pauses, hands still in the water, soap bubbles clinging to his forearms. "Does it?"
"Seems like it should."
"You'd have to ask Knox. He's the alpha. He decides who's pack and who's not."
"I'm asking you."
Jason looks at me then, really looks, and there's something vulnerable in his expression. Something he's trying to hide and can't quite manage. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"I want you to say what you're thinking."
"I'm thinking—" He stops, shakes his head, turns back to the dishes like he can escape the conversation by scrubbing harder. "I'm thinking you're dangerous and I should stay away from you, but I'm going to show up at your garage tomorrow anyway because apparently I have no survival instinct."
"That makes two of us."
He laughs, surprised and a little helpless. "You have plenty of survival instinct. You're a Green Beret. Survival is literally your job."
"Was my job. Now I'm retired."
"And buying houses. And inviting strangers to see your garage."
"You're not a stranger."
"I'm not?" He raises an eyebrow, skeptical. "We've known each other for four days."
"Three."
"Even worse."
"Time's relative." I push off from the counter, close enough now that I could touch him if I wanted to. Close enough to see the pulse jumping in his throat. "Sometimes you meet someone and it feels like you've known them longer."
"Is that how this feels to you?"
"I don't know yet." It's honest, more honest than I usually am. I don't do vulnerable. Don't do uncertainty. But something about Jason makes me want to try. "That's what I'm trying to figure out."
He holds my gaze for a long moment, soap suds dripping from his hands, hope and fear fighting for space in his eyes.
Then he turns back to the dishes.
"Tomorrow," he says. "After five."
"I'll be there."
I leave him to finish washing up, collect my jacket from the chair where I left it, make my goodbyes. Robin hugs me tight and whispers "be careful with him" in my ear. Toby squeezes my hand and doesn't say anything, but his eyes say plenty.
Even Knox nods at me—grudging respect, maybe, or a warning. Hard to tell with him.
Outside, the afternoon sun is bright and warm. Indian summer, the last gasp of heat before fall sets in for real. I sit on my bike for a minute before starting it, looking at the bar, thinking about the man inside who made me lunch because I said I liked spicy food.
Four batches of vindaloo. Robin told me, texted me last night with a string of exasperated emojis. He made FOUR batches to get it right for you. Four. He's already in deep.
I should cancel tomorrow. Should text Jason some excuse, keep my distance, let this fade before it becomes something neither of us can walk away from. That would be the smart thing. The safe thing. The thing that protects us both.
But I won't.
Because for the first time in years, I want something more than I want to be safe from it. And maybe that's stupid, maybe that's reckless, maybe I'm going to destroy us both.
But I'm tired of being careful. Tired of keeping everyone at arm's length. Tired of waking up alone in an empty house that doesn't feel like home.
Jason looks at me like I could be something good.
I want to find out if he's right.