Page 9 of The Flavor of Us

She pinches the bridge of her nose again, muttering something under her breath about ‘blasphemy’ and ‘culinary sins,’ but I catch the way her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile.

I smirk and get to work.

Chapter five

CARLEEN

Tati’s rummaging through my kitchen cabinets and honestly, it’s starting to feel like her personal treasure hunt. I lean against the counter, arms crossed over my chest, watching her with a mix of curiosity and dread. She’s already pulled out peanut butter, some half-squished store-brand jelly, and leftover store-bought bread I used for a bread pudding in a pinch.

My goddess, she’s making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I blink slowly as she slams the ingredients onto the counter like she’s about to perform open-heart surgery. Her brows furrow in concentration as she unscrews the peanut butter jar, dipping the knife in without a second thought. No finesse, no care—just pure chaotic energy.

“Are you… okay?” I ask cautiously.

She ignores me, scooping out an obscene amount of peanut butter and slapping it onto a slice of bread with all the delicacyof a wrecking ball. Peanut butter smears across her knuckles, and she mutters something under her breath as she spreads it unevenly, one slice nearly tearing in half.

“Do you… need help?” I try again, but she just glares at me over her shoulder.

“Carleen, I love you, butdo notruin this for me,” she says, her voice firm and full of authority in a way that makes me snap my mouth shut.

I bite my cheek to keep from laughing as she starts on the jelly. It’s not even spread—it’sglobbed. Like angry spoonfuls of grape jelly slapped onto the bread with zero distribution. One corner has enough jelly to drown a toddler, while the other corner is as dry as the Sahara.

The two slices are smashed together, peanut butter oozing out the sides like some culinary horror movie.

And then it happens.

Tati holds up the butter knife, still smeared with peanut butter, and without breaking eye contact…she licks it.

Like, fully licks it. Tongue flat, slow, deliberate.

I feel my eye twitch. My Alpha instincts practicallyscreamat me about safety, hygiene, the chaos of it all. And yet… I can’t look away.

“You didn’t just do that,” I mutter, horrified.

“Oh, Iabsolutelydid,” she replies, grinning wickedly as she tosses the knife into the sink with a loudclank.

I move toward the sink, my hand reaching for the faucet to start washing the chaos away when—

“Carleen!” Tati groans dramatically, shoving the sandwich into my chest with both hands. “Eat the damn sandwich!”

I stare down at the monstrosity she’s forced into my hands. The bread is uneven, jelly drips down one side, and there’s a smear of peanut butter on my thumb now. I glance up at her, eyebrow raised. “You can’t possibly expect me to eat this.”

She crosses her arms and levels me with a look that could cut steel. “Take. A. Bite. Just… do it. Remember when it was just a sandwich? Like… lunchtime on a school day or a picnic in the park. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be artisan or handcrafted. It’s just… food.”

Her words hit harder than they should. Something about the way she said it, all soft and nostalgic, tugs at something buried deep in my chest. I sigh and glance back down at the sandwich. The messiness of it, the rawness of it… it’s almost charming.Almost.

“Alright, fine,” I mutter, bringing it to my mouth. I take a bite, my teeth sinking into the soft bread, the sweet jelly mixing with the nutty peanut butter. It’s clumsy, sticky, and absolutely not refined in the slightest.

And yet… it’sgood.

The flavor hits me harder than I expect and for a second, I’m not here in my sleek kitchen with Tati smirking at me. I’m back in our tiny childhood kitchen, Ellie sitting across from me at the table with jelly smeared across her cheek and her eyes wide with excitement as our mom hands her another sandwich.

I remember school days when our mom would pack PB&J sandwiches into our lunchboxes with a note scribbled on the napkin. Days when it was just Ellie and me against the world, sitting under the slide at the playground and splitting one sandwich because Ellie had dropped hers in the dirt.

Our parents were amazing. Supportive, loving, everything we needed. But there were still moments—little pockets of time—where it felt like it was just Ellie and me. And back then, a sandwich like this felt like a feast.

I swallow the bite, my throat tight, and glance up at Tati. Her grin has softened into something gentler, her hazel eyes watching me carefully.

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