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“Barkeep said you’d be back here,” Ais’s voice echoes through the empty kitchen, sounding bemused. “Gotta admit this wasn’t what I expected.”
You glance over your shoulder, snort, and continue to knead the large, lumpy mass of dough on the counter. “Thought I’d be butchering the cow for them?”
“Cleaning the bones for a necklace, bottling marrow for potions,” he adds, his footsteps drawing closer until he appears at the edge of her counter. “Scrying prey with skin or eyeballs. The usual.” He leans over and braces his elbows on the stone, chin notched in his palm.
“Ha ha.”
“Just thought you’d be doing something a little more badass.”
The dough softens and pulls beneath your hands, wisps of flour puffing into the air with each roll. For a long time, you’d been afraid to touch not just anyone but any thing . When you were young, your teacher had eventually convinced you to work on more crafts and skills, to grow more comfortable with your bare hands - and despite all they’d put you through, those memories still held bittersweet solace even now. “There’s still time to add more ingredients. A cup of chopped, eldritch sea demon should add some spice.”
“I was just about to ask if that was a meat cleaver in your pocket, or if you’re just happy to see me.”
You roll your eyes and pause to spread the dough between your fingers, before balling it up and dropping it in a pot to mature in the shade for a while. “Guess Leander’s getting most of my loaf tonight. I know he’ll appreciate it.”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “Most? Who else?”
“Vere will probably sneer, express his utmost disdain for such peasant fair, and then eat a fourth of it. He’s a slut for a honey glaze.” You sidle closer and prop your hip on the edge, looking him over. It’s a little unusual to see him out and about during the day. His hair windswept, the folds of his kimono draping around his belt and down his left arm, Ais looks as though he just rolled out of bed.
“Mhin seems like they’d have a sweet tooth too. Kuras… hmm.” You shrug and flick the tail of your hair over your shoulder. “Hard to know what the good doctor likes. Have you ever seen him eat?”
“No, despite Leander’s best attempts.” Red eyes trail lazily over the quiet kitchen: stacks of copper pots, a shelf full of knives and spokes, the massive iron cauldron warming in the hearth, before stopping on you. “He likes you, though.”
“Think he’d break bread with me?” You ask with a laugh in your voice.
Ais only hums, but the faint smile evolves into something with a little more teeth.
“It’s a shame my bread’s not badass enough for the Seaspring’s master,” you muse, biting on your tongue to keep from grinning. “Guess I’ll go and have a cry about it.”
“Always wanted to make you cry, sparrow,” he says, rising from his slouch and stepping toward you. His broad shoulders cage you up against the counter, his body looming over you. He’s not hot like most men and monsters - Ais seemed to exude the same chill that drifted in mists from the Seaspring, smelling of brine and brimstone. “Didn’t think I’d manage it like this.”
You look up at him from beneath your lashes, hooking your finger into the lip of the leather belt. You’re exceptionally careful of what you touch and where, without your bandages to shield him. “How did you imagine it?”
Ais leans into your space, his heavy-lidded gaze settling on your mouth with smoldering heat, like embers roasting on a bed of coals. His finger drew a line across the counter before lifting, a peak of flour sitting there like a snow cap. “No clothes. Less flour.” He blows it off, smirking as the cloud drifts into your face.
“The counter’s unexpected, but… not bad.” He wraps his knuckles against the top. “It’ll probably hold up.”
Heat curls within you. “ Probably .”
Ais shrugs. “Probably.”
You take a long, steady breath, feeling your stomach brush against him. “Better chances than that pier, I suppose.”
Something swam through his red eyes, the glow brightening for a heartbeat. “Now that’s a thought, sparrow.”
“You haven’t had it before? I’m offended.”
“Figured you’d want a bed, at least.”
“I’m not picky.”
Ais chuckles, the sound so low and pleased that it hooks into you with electric warmth. He leans his body forward until his weight presses against you, pins you to the cold stone at your back, and cranes his neck. He presses a grinning mouth against yours.
“Birds of a feather, sparrow.”