Page 206 of The Devil May Care

“You made this?” I ask.

He arches one brow. “I am capable of many things. Cooking is not one.”

A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “So, you threatened someone into making it.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“I asked,” he says instead, voice dry. “Which is more dangerous.”

I shake my head but start eating. The first bite is incredible. Warm and seasoned, tender without being soft. It’s a far cry from the training rations or the ceremonial meals where I spent more time trying to figure out if something was edible than actually chewing.

“God,” I murmur. “This is… stupid good.”

“I’ll pass that on.”

We fall into an easy silence for a few moments, the kind I rarely get anymore. The kind that doesn’t feel like silence at all—just space to breathe. He eats slowly, watching me more than his own plate, which should feel awkward. But it doesn’t. It feels like focus.

“You didn’t tell me where we were going,” I say between bites.

He shrugs. “Would you have come?”

“Maybe.”

“Then it worked.”

I narrow my eyes at him, mock suspicion. “You are worried.”

“I’m always worried when it comes to you.”

There’s no humor in the way he says it. No performative charm. Just that low, gravel-edged honesty he slips into when he forgets to guard himself.

I glance down at my plate, suddenly self-conscious. “This isn’t a trap, is it?”

His lips quirk. “If it were, I’d have worn something more intimidating.”

I flick my eyes up to him. Even with nothing but the quiet hum of magic in the air, he’s intimidating, but I know that’s just him.

“You clean up alright,” I mutter.

“So I have been told,” he says, but there’s a softness in it. Like he wants to be seen this way. Like maybe this version of him doesn’t get to exist often.

“You always feed me when you’re scared,” I say.

He tilts his head. “When it comes to you,sâl,I’m constantly terrified.”

That catches me off guard, and I stop chewing.

“Why?” I ask.

He doesn’t look away. “Because you are still here. And you still do not see what that means.”

My chest tightens. I push food around on my plate for a second, then stop pretending.

“I don’t know how to want something that doesn’t end in fire,” I admit. “Or grief. Or both.”

He’s quiet for a moment, “Then tonight doesn’t have to mean anything. Not if—”

My gaze snaps to his.