Page 80 of Lavender and Honey

"I refuse to believe that," Elias says, stirring his sauce with renewed vigor. "Not with taste buds like yours." He scoopsup another spoonful, tasting it before nodding in satisfaction. "Perfect. Lydia, you're officially on sauce duty from now on."

"What about my vegetable-chopping skills?" I ask, surprising myself with the light teasing in my tone. "Being demoted already?"

Finn chuckles, the sound reverberating through the kitchen. "Don't worry. You can still rescue me from my 'massacring' ways."

"I never said massacring," Elias protests.

"You didn't need to," Lucian interjects, moving from his position by the counter to retrieve plates from a cabinet. "Your expression said it for you."

"I'm an open book," Elias agrees, without a hint of defensiveness. "Speaking of which..." He gestures to a cookbook lying open on the counter. "Lydia, could you read out the next step while I get the pasta water going?"

I move to the book, my fingers trailing over the well-worn pages. The recipe is handwritten, the script flowing and elegant, with notes and adjustments scribbled in the margins. "Is this a family recipe?" I ask, touched by the personal nature of it.

"My grandmother's," Elias confirms, filling a large pot with water. "She taught me everything I know about cooking. Said food was love made tangible." His voice softens with the memory, and I'm struck by how freely he shares these pieces of himself, these tender connections to his past.

"Once the sauce has simmered for twenty minutes," I read, "add fresh basil leaves, torn, not cut." I look up, curious. "Why torn?"

"The flavor releases differently," Elias explains, setting the pot on the stove. "Cutting with a knife can bruise the leaves and make them turn black faster. Tearing is gentler."

I nod, absorbing this small lesson. "My mother never cooked," I find myself saying, the words slipping out before I can catch them. "We had staff for that. I didn't learn until I left home."

A beat of silence follows my confession, and I wonder if I've broken some unspoken rule by mentioning my past. But then Soren slides off his stool and moves to the refrigerator, his movements deliberately casual.

"My mother couldn't cook worth a damn either," he says, retrieving a covered bowl of what looks like fresh mozzarella. "But she could mix a cocktail that would knock you flat after two sips. Useful skill at family gatherings."

I laugh, grateful for his easy acceptance, the way he's normalized my experience. "Mine preferred wine. Very expensive, very dry, very French."

"Let me guess," Finn says, sliding sliced tomatoes into a serving bowl. "She held the glass by the stem and swirled it exactly three times before sipping."

"Five," I correct, and the kitchen fills with warm laughter, including my own. The sound of it startles me—how long has it been since I laughed freely like this, surrounded by people who seem genuinely interested in my life?

"What about you?" I ask, turning to Lucian, emboldened by their responses. "Did your mother cook?"

Lucian's steel-gray eyes meet mine, a flicker of surprise crossing his face at being directly addressed. "She did," he says, his deep voice thoughtful. "Simple things, hearty and filling. She believed food should sustain both body and spirit."

"Like your pasta," Elias interjects, glancing at Lucian with such open affection that I feel like I'm witnessing something private.

Lucian's mouth curves into a rare, full smile. "Yes, like my pasta. Though mine never turns out quite like hers."

"It's the love," Finn suggests, arranging cucumber slices in a pattern around the edge of the salad. "No one can replicate a mother's touch."

"Or a grandmother's," Elias adds, gesturing to his sauce that now simmers gently, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma. I watch them, these four men with their easy banter and shared history, and feel a pang of something like envy mixed with longing. My own family meals were formal affairs, more performance than pleasure, with conversation carefully curated to appropriate topics.

"Earth to Lydia," Soren's voice breaks through my reverie, his playful tone belied by the gentle concern in his purple eyes. "You disappeared on us for a moment there."

"Sorry," I say, forcing a smile. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous pastime," Soren teases, but his hand finds my shoulder, a brief, grounding touch. "Especially when there's food to be made. Come help me with these herbs."I follow him to the counter where fresh basil, parsley, and thyme are arranged in neat bunches. The simple task of sorting and washing herbs gives my hands something to do while my mind settles.

"So," Soren says, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear him. "How are you holding up? Really?"

I glance up, caught off guard by his directness. His purple eyes are serious, despite the casual tilt of his head. For a moment, I consider deflecting with a generic reassurance, but something about his gaze makes me want to be honest.

"It's... intense," I admit softly. "Being here like this. But not in a bad way."

Soren nods, separating basil leaves from their stems with practiced movements. "New experiences usually are. Especially ones that matter." Before I can respond to this surprisingly insightful observation, there's a crash from the stove, followedby Elias's creative cursing. We both turn to see him hopping on one foot, his face contorted in pain.

"What happened?" Finn asks, already moving to Elias's side.

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