Page 38 of Purring for Her Lion
She raises an eyebrow, waiting.
I meet her gaze steadily. “I’m territorial about you.”
The admission hangs in the air between us, honest and unavoidable. I don’t wait for her response, just continue working as if I haven’t just laid bare the truth we’ve both been dancing around for weeks.
Because the truth—the simple, undeniable truth—is that somewhere between fixing chicken coops and incubating dragon eggs, somewhere between accepting containers of leftovers and building herb gardens, I’ve claimed her as mine.
Whether she’s ready to acknowledge it or not.
CHAPTER 13
LIANA
I’m not thinkingabout Roarke. I’m absolutely, definitely not thinking about the way he looked at me yesterday when he said those words.
“I’m territorial about you.”
Nope. Not thinking about it at all, which is why I’ve grated my knuckles twice on this coconut and mixed up salt and sugar in my first batch of pandesal.
The flour on my counter looks like a crime scene, and somewhere in this kitchen is the ghost of my lola, laughing her ass off at my complete inability to focus on something as simple as baking bread—something I could normally do blindfolded, half-asleep, and possibly during an earthquake.
“Stupid lion-man with his stupid territorial…territoriality? Territorialness.” I nod, preferring that word, aggressively kneading a fresh batch of dough.
My hands work on autopilot, pushing and folding, the familiar motions soothing despite my scattered thoughts. The doughtransforms under my fingers, from shaggy mess to smooth, elastic potential.
I’m making three different things today—pandesal for tomorrow’s breakfast, ube jam that I’m hoping to sell at Ogram’s market on Saturday, and chicken adobo that will definitely not be portioned into neat containers with Roarke-specific reheating instructions.
Definitely not. Because I’m not thinking about him.
The vinegar hits the hot pan with a satisfying hiss as I pour it over the browned chicken pieces. The familiar scent of adobo fills the kitchen—soy sauce, vinegar, bay leaves, and black pepper swirling together in a tangy cloud that instantly transports me back to my childhood kitchen in Manila.
My lola standing over the stove, wooden spoon in hand, telling me to be patient, to let the flavors meld.
Patience was never my strong suit. Still isn’t.
I check on the ube jam, stirring the vibrant purple mixture before it can scorch. The color is so intense it almost hurts my eyes—nothing like the muted, apologetic food colors of the corporate cafeterias I escaped from. Those sterile, efficient spaces where I spent years of my life staring at screens, designing interfaces that no one would remember, eating lunches I could barely taste.
How did I get here? From Manila’s crowded streets to New York’s glass towers to Virginia’s quiet suburbs, and finally to this place—this strange, magical town where my neighbor is a lion-man veterinarian and I’m incubating a dragon egg in my spare room?
It wasn’t a straight line, that’s for sure. More like a panicked zigzag. Manila to New York was ambition—the bright-eyed girl convinced she could conquer American tech.
New York to Virginia was burnout—seeking space, air, some relief from the constant sensory barrage.
But Virginia was wrong too, despite the supportive Filipino community—too quiet but also too loud in all the ways that mattered. Too many social expectations, neighborhood associations with opinions about my garden, people who smiled while asking invasive questions.
I stir the adobo, letting the sauce reduce. It’s the most straightforward recipe in my arsenal—you literally just throw everything in a pot and let it cook—but somehow, the results are always exactly what I need. Comfort. Home. A taste that belongs to me, regardless of where I am.
Harmony Glen wasn’t on any map I studied. It wasn’t recommended by algorithms or relocation specialists. It was a random listing I found at 3:00 AM during an insomnia-fueled Zillow binge—a fixer-upper with “character” (code for: might collapse if you sneeze too hard) and “potential” (code for: hope you own power tools and have good health insurance).
But it had land. Actual land. Room for the chickens I’d dreamed about while trapped in my Manhattan apartment. Space for a garden that wouldn’t be judged by people whose idea of nature was a carefully manicured lawn. Distance from neighbors who might find my stimming weird or my social batteries confusing.
Except, of course, for the neighbor I ended up with. The one I’m not thinking about.
I slam the lid on the adobo with more force than necessary and turn my attention to the ube jam, which has reached the perfect consistency—thick and glossy, sticking to the spoon for a moment before slowly dripping back into the pot. I start transferring it into sterilized jars, the repetitive motion allowing my mind to wander again.
Why does Harmony Glen feel more like home than anywhere else I’ve lived? Even my birthplace?
I’ve only been here a few months, but there’s something about this town, these people. They don’t blink when I info-dump about sourdough fermentation for twenty minutes. They don’t ask why I sometimes wear noise-canceling headphones around town.
