Page 28 of Purring for Her Lion
His nose twitches. “More bread?”
I laugh, grabbing ingredients. “Better. Filipino comfort food. Adobo, kare kare, and if you’re very good, lumpia.”
“Lumpia?” He tests the word, deep and rough.
“Filipino spring rolls. It was part of my thank you basket I gave you. Everybody loves them. They’re like currency.” I start chopping onions and garlic, the motions soothing. “My lola used to say you could solve any neighborhood dispute with lumpia.”
Roarke returns to his sketches, making notes and adjustments. The kitchen fills with the sharp, sweet smell of simmering garlic, vinegar, bay leaves. It grounds me, anchors me after all the chaos of storms and dragon eggs.
“First priority is the chicken coop,” Roarke says after a while. “Then the incubation area. The rest can wait.”
I stir the peanut sauce. “What’s your schedule like? I know you have the clinic.”
“Mornings at the clinic. Afternoons here. Weekends free.” Like rearranging his life for my disaster farm is normal.
“That’s… a lot of your time,” I say.
He shrugs, a ripple over his broad shoulders. “The egg won’t wait.”
“Right. The egg.” Like that’s the only reason. Professional. Not because he wants to be here, or with me.
We work together better than I’d expect. Once the crock pots are going, I follow him outside. He’s already unloaded tools and supplies from his truck. Things I didn’t even know existed.
“Have you built a lot of chicken coops?” I ask, holding a board while he drills.
“No.”
“Then how do you know what to do?”
He pauses. “I built shelters. In the war.”
The words surprise me. I’ve wondered, but never asked. “You were in a war?”
He nods, working again. “Rodinian campaigns. Three of them.”
I picture him in battle. It fits—the way he moves, the way he reads a situation.
“Is that why you became a vet?” It slips out. “Because of the war?”
He’s silent so long I regret it. Then, just as I’m about to apologize, he answers.
“War destroys.” Quiet, matter-of-fact. “Healing builds.”
The words hit me. Four syllables, more revealing than any story.
“Okay, that’s very poetic,” I say, trying to play it off. “And mildly swoon-worthy.”
He looks up, honestly confused. “What?”
“Nothing.” I flush. “Just—it’s a beautiful way to see it. From destruction to healing.”
He seems baffled, but nods, going back to work. I watch his hands, big and gentle. Hands that hurt in war, now healing. It makes my heart stutter.
Midday, I make us eat. We sit on the porch steps, paper plates balanced on our knees. Roarke takes a bite of adobo and makes a sound that’s almost a purr.
“Good?” I ask, grinning.
He nods, already reaching for more. “Very.”
