“You’re ridiculous,” I told her without heat, and decided not to examine too closely the tightness in my chest from her using the words feeding me. “But I don’t like cooking for just myself,” I said, feeling weirdly exposed from that admission. “And you know my schedule, a lot of times I just don’t have the energy to cook. In New York, I only had Esteban to make my dinners. The rest of the meals I had to fend for myself.”

She narrowed her eyes at that, and I realized what I’d said, then threw my hands up in concession.

“Okay, for you to fend for me.”

“That’s right,” she huffed, hands on her hips, and then her eyes widened and her chin turned up. “And before you ask, yes, I will let you cook for me too, since you don’t like to do it just for yourself.”

“Wow, that is quite a reach, Alba Medea.”

She huffed, but her grin was still in place. “I’m going to let you get away with that one Theodoro, but don’t get used to it,” she warned with a wave of her finger.

“If you help me clean up after, I’ll make us both dinner whenever we’re home for the night.” It was funny to think the thing that had most attracted to me about Alba was her self-sufficiency. How she never seemed to need anything from anyone. And yet, the thought of making a meal for her was all-consuming.

She slanted those chocolate brown eyes in my direction, like she was trying to figure out what trick I had under my sleeve. After a moment, she nodded, that dubious expression still on her face.

“All right, but I’m not doing any sous chef shit.” How had she managed to keep all this surliness under wraps for so long? Suddenly all I could see was Alba sitting at the kitchen island, moaning over food I’d made for her with my hands. Of that sweet little butt twitching in the seat when she took a bite of something she loved.

“Maybe I can give you a few cooking lessons,” I told her quietly, certain she would clap back with something scathing.

“If I wanted to learn how to cook I would’ve paid attention during one of the million times my mother or grandmother made dinner.” She harrumphed, and I bit my lip.

“But you have to eat with me.” She glared for a moment, her stance straight like a soldier’s.

“Fine.” She pushed off the fridge door and pushed a pointy nail into my chest. “But no guandules.”

I resisted the temptation to tug on the hand pressed to my chest and glue her front to mine, to press my mouth to her ear and tell her to fuck the guandules and the plantains, that the only thing I wanted on my tongue from now until forever was her skin.