Page 85 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
The memory sends heat spreading through me as I settle in front of my laptop. I'm soon lost in code, the surveillance data from our last operation needing my full attention.
I'm not sure how long I've been coding when Asher's hands land on my shoulders. I jump, startled.
"Vanessa," his voice is patient. "You haven't moved in three hours."
I blink, disoriented. The program I've been refining for the surveillance data is nearly complete, but the last time I checkedthe clock, it had been just after my self-defense lesson. Now it's, I glance at the screen, nearly 4:30.
"That's not possible," I argue, but the stiffness in my shoulders suggests otherwise.
"You need to eat." Asher's tone leaves no room for argument. He saves my work with practiced keystrokes and closes my laptop.
Before I can protest, he lifts me from the chair. I squeak in surprise as he carries me to the kitchen island and sets me on one of the high stools.
"Stay," he commands, like I'm an enthusiastic puppy.
He moves around his kitchen with military efficiency, retrieving ingredients from the refrigerator and pantry. Even making a simple meal, he moves with the deadly grace that makes my mouth go dry. Every motion is calculated, nothing wasted. He sets a glass of water in front of me.
"Drink," he says, turning back to the counter where he's already dicing vegetables with machine-like precision.
"You know, most people ask rather than command," I point out, but I drink the water, anyway.
"Most people don't forget to hydrate for hours at a time," he counters without turning around.
I study him as he works. His kitchen is arranged with the same unwavering order as everything else in his life. Ingredients are meticulously organized; cooking utensils hang in perfect alignment.
"What are you making?" I ask, spinning slightly on my stool.
"Stir-fry. Protein, vegetables, complex carbohydrates." He measures rice with precise movements—one exact cup, not a grain more or less.
I slide off the stool and move to his side. "Can I help?"
He pauses, knife hovering over a red bell pepper. "Can you follow specific instructions?"
"Sometimes," I answer honestly. "Depends on the instructions. And my mood. And whether Mercury is in retrograde."
His eyebrow arches slightly. "You can chop the garlic."
I take the knife he offers and grab several cloves, smashing them with the flat of the blade the way my mother taught me.
"What are you doing?" Asher's voice is sharp with surprise.
"Prepping garlic," I explain, peeling the crushed cloves. "My Nanay taught me this trick. Smash it first, and the skin comes right off."
"That wasn't in the recipe."
"You have a recipe for stir-fry?" I laugh. "It's not baking. You just throw things in until it tastes good."
The look of absolute horror on his face makes me laugh harder. "You can't quantify flavor with measurements, Asher. You have to taste as you go."
He watches with poorly concealed alarm as I chop the garlic unevenly—some pieces fine, others chunky. I grab a handful and throw it into the heating pan without measuring.
"That's almost triple what the recipe calls for." His voice is strained.
I shrug. "Filipino cooking rule number one: whatever amount of garlic a recipe calls for, triple it. At a minimum."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Is there a rule book I can take a look at?"
"It's more of an oral tradition." I reach for the bottle of soy sauce. Before I can pour it, Asher intercepts, measuring out a tablespoon.
