“Gonna cook like a Greek god, Professor?” Storm grinned.
“I’m fairly sure Greek gods don’t wear bed sheets,” Linus said dryly.
He ducked into his bedroom, dropped the sheets, and pulled on a comfortable set of T-shirt and leggings. Then he hurried back to the kitchen, where Storm had already retrieved some ingredients from the fridge.
“You know my fridge pretty well,” Linus said.
Storm turned bright red. “I want to say I spent that entire time looking for ingredients, but I think you’d call my bluff.”
Linus watched as Storm took two precise steps to retrieve a knife and cutting board. He turned just the right amount to place himself in front of the ingredients, like a well-rehearsed dance. And he handled the knife as though it was an extension of his arm.
Linus wasn’t sure what to think about all of it.
“What are you making?” he asked.
“Potato and chicken casserole. That’ll give us—uh, you—plenty of leftovers.”
Linus peeked at Storm, who looked flustered again. “Are you planning to have the leftovers too?”
“Not if you want it all!”
Linus pretended to rummage in the fridge. If Storm had planned on them sharing the leftovers, did that mean he would drop by the apartment again?
“What areyoumaking?” Storm asked, looking up as he diced some red-skinned potatoes.
“Fried eggs and pasta.”
“Fried eggsonpasta?” Storm raised his eyebrows. “Not that I have anything against it.”
“Well, I was planning on making them separately, but... that doesn’t sound bad.”
Storm chuckled. “It sounds like prison food.”
Linus blinked, surprised.
Storm froze. “Oh. Uh, I didn’t mean it as an insult. I just meant... prison food is weird.”
“You know what prison food is like?”
Storm stiffened ever so slightly, his gaze darting away. “Kinda? There’s... plenty of movies that take place in prison.”
There was a truth hidden in his words; Linus could sense it. But Storm turned away and dropped his diced potatoes into a frying pan.
“I’ll get a pot of water started for your pasta,” Storm said.
Linus studied the tattoos on Storm’s shoulders, this time with a growing awareness of what their presence might mean. “How old were you when you got your first tattoo?”
“Eighteen. I got them all over the past four years. They’re pretty good, aren’t they? I lucked out and found someone who can really work a tattoo gun.” While the potatoes were frying, Storm diced up some onions.
“They’re very beautiful,” Linus agreed.
Slowly, he got the ground beef and bacon out of the fridge. He liked adding extras to his pasta sauce; from Storm’s rumble of approval, the alpha enjoyed them too.
“You don’t have that recipe written down,” Storm said.
“You’re very familiar with my recipe book.”
Storm squirmed. “I wanted to make you something different, aside from all the scrambled eggs and stew. But you would’ve noticed immediately if there was something new in the fridge, so I didn’t. I was just waiting for you to change up the dinner menu so I could cook more of the same.”
