Chapter 8

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Inside the dim house, its yellow light has painted a feeling of warmth and coziness that Camila is gracious for as she slowly walks in the direction a semi-drunk pointed at. He had given her a fuzzy smile, mischief hanging onto the curled ends of his lips. Camila brushed the feeling off and just nodded. She walks past the arched hole in the wall, entering the kitchen and dining room space.

The kitchen is to the far left of the room. A pristine white quartz island stood, filled with warm dishes that hailed smoke to the sky. Slate-gray cabinets with black handles that Camila could only imagine matching the cabinets close to the floor. A heavy contrast to their color disaster kitchen. Behind the island moved Yohan, his back facing Camila as he moved back and forth from the stove to the white counters. She moves to the wall, places her back on it, and stands quietly observing Yohan.

Yohan only turns to meet her face when he places a hot green-like dish on a wooden board on the island. He looks up, their eyes meeting each other initiating a silent staring contest. Yohan's heart elevates, frantically beating until Camila is convinced it might jump from his ribcage and land on the island.

Camila moves from the wall, nearing him and pointing to the dishes, "Do you need any help? Figured that since...You're the only one in the kitchen you'd like some help."

"Uhm...tomatoes. I need some tomatoes from the fridge." He says pointing to a black fridge in front of him.

She walks to the fridge and grabs two plump red tomatoes. Camila carries them in one hand and just as she's about to place them on the counter, Yohan reaches for her hand engulfing them in warmth. Camila has never considered her hands as small even if they were chubbier than Marie's. Yet when Yohan held them, they were gone. The brief contact sent a shiver up her spine, and after he'd pulled away, she could still feel her skin run hot.

"What are you cooking?"

"Traditional foods from our motherland", he responds while skillfully moving a skillet of caramelized purple onions that slowly turn into light purple. "Marie had told Nico about some of your favorite dishes and I'm...recreating them."

Camila moves away from the kitchen counter, sparing Yohan a quick glance then turning to the white island she barely paid attention to. Her senses had ignored the similar dishes her grandmother poured her heart over when they'd arrive from school or any outing they'd attend. Smashed plantains turned into a paste of sweet flavors. A small dish of fried eggs, with both hard and soft yolk followed by a dish of fried salami all laid out in a circular pattern. To the corner of the island is what appears to be a casserole, but she focuses on the filling and sees ground beef, sweet plantains, and shredded cheese.

Camila stands over the dishes, feeling an unfamiliar warmth spread through her cold veins. It's not hunger, but it makes her run hot. Her knees buckle lightly, and she places her palms on the island to hold herself. She stays still for a few moments, smelling the scent of herbs and spice mixed with Yohan's scent. When Camila turns around, Yohan is looking at her, with the stove turned off, and an odd glint in his eyes. He's silent, waiting for Camila to speak.

She stays silent, unsure of what to say. 'Thank you', seems too simple for this gesture, not intimate enough. 'It looks delicious' is not correct. Camila has no appetite for human food, and despite it actually looking delicious, it's not enough to put her feelings into words. She wants him to know her sincerity and give Yohan a small glimpse of her gratitude. She settles with an unoriginal question, giving her brain time for a better response.

"Where'd you learn to cook?" She asks.

His shoulders drop, "Korea. My grandfather dreamed of being a chef, so he had many recipes and cooking advice stacked for his future grandkid."

You've reached the end of published parts.

⏰ Last updated: Sep 23 ⏰

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