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“What is this?” Álvaro asks, sniffing suspiciously at the contents of the pot on the stove.
If Isco seems to be interested in cooking, it’s suspicious.
“Mulled wine,” Isco says, throwing a few slices of orange into the pot.
The fruity and spicy smell intensifies.
“Do you want some?” Isco asks, pouring himself the hot liquid into a cup with the help of a soup laddle.
“You know I don’t drink al-“
“Come on!” Isco chuckles. “You know how long this has been boiling? There’s practically no alcohol in there.”
“There’s not?” Álvaro blinks.
“No. Unless you add rum.”
“You add rum to this?” Álvaro wrinkles his nose.
“Sometimes, when I’m too cold,” Isco grins. “But I have no rum anyway.” He takes a sip and groans contentedly. “So?”
“Maybe a little bit…” Álvaro says.
Isco grins happily and pours him a cup. “Careful, it’s hot.”
Álvaro nods and blows on the surface. Then he takes a sip. “You said there was no alcohol!” he says, betrayal seeping from his voice.
“There’s not!”
“But it burns,” Álvaro objects.
“That’s because it’s hot,” Isco says and drinks more from his cup. “Or do I look drunk to you?”
An hour later, when he has to drag sleeping Álvaro from the kitchen to bed, he decides to secretly add rum next time, just to see what happens.