A collection of ancient cooking utensils hung on one wall—some I couldn’t even guess the purpose of—alongside what looked like an antique cleaver that had seen several lifetimes of use. Spices lined open shelving in mismatched jars labeled in a script I didn’t recognize, filling the air with scents that transported me somewhere I’d never been but somehow felt familiar.
He was chopping vegetables for gyros with mesmerizing precision, the knife an extension of his hand. Each slice was perfect, uniform, creating a small mountain of diced tomatoes, onions, and something green and…sticky. Not once did he look down at his hands. Instead, he was fixed on me, watching my reaction to the space, to him, like I was the most fascinating thing in the room.
He caught me staring and the corner of his mouth quirked up, sending an unwanted flutter through my stomach. My own attempts at cooking ended in disaster—the last time I’d tried to make anything more complicated than toast, I’d nearly taken off a finger. The memory of blood spreading across my cutting board, the panicky trip to the emergency room where I’d had to glamour the receptionist to move me up the list because I couldn’t afford insurance... After that, I’d stuck to what I knew: using my glamour to convince people to feed me. Gas station attendants with their sad rotating hot dogs, wait staff who could be charmed into ‘forgetting’ to ring up dessert, anyone who might take pity on a pretty face when I was broke and desperate.
The sound of Kronos’s knife hitting the wooden board created a hypnotic rhythm that filled the kitchen—chop, chop, scrapeas he gathered the pieces, then repeat. A pot of something simmered on the stove, bubbling occasionally and releasing a steam that smelled of garlic and lemon. My stomach growled, loud enough in the quiet kitchen that there was no way he hadn’t heard it with his preternatural senses.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Kronos asked, setting down his knife. “You’ve gone somewhere far away.”
“Just thinking about cooking,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “My mom used to make these amazing pistachio pancakes when I was little.”
The memory hit me harder than I expected—a bright Sunday morning, the scent of vanilla and nuts filling our tiny kitchen, her humming some old Puerto Rican song as she flipped each perfect circle. The familiar ache settled in my chest, the one that always appeared when I allowed myself to remember.
“She was Puerto Rican?” Kronos asked, his tone casual, but his eyes watchful. “When was the last time you saw her? Perhaps we could visit sometime.”
I stared down at the vegetables, running my finger along the grain of the wooden cutting board. The question was innocent enough, but it poked at wounds I usually kept bandaged and hidden.
“She died,” The words scraped my throat. “Three years after my father kicked me out. I wasn’t there.”
Kronos set his knifedown then, coming to stand behind me at the counter. His chest pressed against my back, a solid warmth that somehow made it easier to speak. “I’m sorry,” he said, no platitudes or awkward questions.
“She was…” I swallowed hard, surprised to want to tell him more. “She was this funny, vibrant woman who could light up a room just by walking into it. Literally, sometimes. The will-o’-wisp heritage comes from her side.” I gestured toward my eyes. “Hence the blue. She had the same eyes.”
His hand settled on my hip. “What was her cooking like?”
A small smile tugged at my lips despite everything. “Buenísimo.She could turn the simplest ingredients into something magical. My favorite was herarroz con gandules—rice with pigeon peas. She’d always have me be her,manito–little helper–in the kitchen, letting me stir the pot or add the spices.“ The memory was so vivid I could almost taste the savory rice, feel the steam warming my face as I stood on a chair to reach the stove. “She’d tell me stories while we cooked, legends about our ancestors and magic.”
I didn’t realize I was crying until Kronos turned me to face him, brushing away a tear I hadn’t felt fall. “She taught me that food was love,” I admitted, the words barely audible. “That feeding someone was a way of caring for their soul, not just their body.”
The letter about her death had arrived three years later, a single page of my sister’s stiff handwriting that held none of her grief but all of her resentment. Tucked inside wasMami’srosary—amber beads worn smooth from decades of prayers, the silver crucifix tarnished but still beautiful. I knew Penelope must have hated parting with it; she’d always coveted it, always thought it should be hers someday. ButMamihad left it to me in her will. Now it stayed wrapped around a glass candle in my apartment, part of the small altar I’d built in the corner of my bedroom. On All Souls Day, Three Kings Day and her birthday, I’d leave out her favorite wine and foods—arroz con gandules, flan, or turronshe’d spend all day making for special occasions. Sometimes I’d catch myself talking to her photo, telling her about my day as if she were still there to listen.
“A woman after my own heart,” he said. “I wish I could have met her.”
“Me too.” Another memory surfaced—my mother’s face the day my father threw me out, her eyes red-rimmed and pleading as she slipped me all the cash from her secret stash. She hadn’t been able to stand against him, but she’d loved me. It had been the last time I’d seen her alive.
“She would have liked you,” I said, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice.
Kronos’s laugh was soft, his hands settling on my shoulders. “Did she also teach you how to charm your way into extra fries, or was that a talent you developed on your own?”
The question eased the tightness in my chest, offering a graceful way back from the edge of too many painful memories. “That was pure survival instinct,” I said, grateful for the shift. “When you’re twenty, broke, and living out of your car, you get creative.”
His expression shifted at that—something flashing behind those silver eyes too quickly for me to interpret. “Well,” he said, guiding my hands back to the cutting board, “tonight I get to charm you.” His hands settled over mine, showing me how to curl my fingers to protect them from the blade. “See how the knife rocks? Let it do the work.” His voice had taken on an exaggerated instructional tone that made me smile despite myself. “This, my dear student, is the ancient and sacred art of not mutilating vegetables.”
“Is that what they taught you in Greece?” I asked, leaning back against him as we worked, grateful for how easily he’d guided us past my unexpected vulnerability.
“Mm. Right after ‘how to brood mysteriously’ and before ‘tactical deployment of sexy accent for maximum effect.’” His lips brushed my ear. “Though I must say, watching you try to seduce a gas station attendant for frozen burritos sounds entertaining.”
I stiffened. That had been right after we met. “What?”
“You talk in your sleep.” He reached past me for another tomato. “Now, observe the proper angle of attack. The tomato is our prey. We must approach with stealth and precision.”
A laugh bubbled up from my chest, surprising me. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Am I?” His freehand slid to my hip, steadying me as we continued chopping. “I’ll have you know tomato hunting is a very serious business. Now, for the grape leaves—those require a more delicate touch.”
I pinched the leaves, attempting to tuck the leaves into a burrito shape, but it fell apart as soon as I released it.
“You’re doing it wrong,” he murmured against my ear, though his hands stayed gentle over mine as we tried to roll the stuffed grape leaves. “Too loose. They’ll fall apart in the pot.”
