For Me,There Is Only You |18+|

49. Between Two Worlds

It was the middle of the night when I quietly made my way downstairs, careful to avoid making any noise.

The last thing I needed was for someone with their supernaturally sharp hearing to catch me sneaking around.

The kitchen was my only destination.

For days now, I'd been craving a dish from back home, and tonight was the night I'd finally satisfy that urge.

My stomach growled in agreement, a not-so-subtle reminder to hurry up.

I rummaged through the cabinets and drawers, pulling out ingredients. It took a while to gather everything I needed, but the plan was clear in my head.

No more burgers, pizzas, roasted chicken, or mac and cheese—I couldn't take another bite of those.

What I needed was something Indian. Something spicy, comforting, and full of soul.

I grabbed two large potatoes, peeled them quickly, and diced them into chunky pieces. Without a pressure cooker in sight, I settled for boiling them in a saucepan, watching as the water bubbled up slowly.

While the potatoes softened, I moved on to the dough. Adding a pinch of salt, I poured in just enough water and started kneading. But halfway through, a thought struck me—I was missing something essential.

Dusting off my hands, I resumed my search through the cabinets, muttering my frustration. "How does anyone not have basic ingredients? What kind of kitchen is this?"

The absence of dried fenugreek leaves felt like a personal betrayal. Sure, this wasn't an Indian kitchen, but still—no dried fenugreek leaves? Unacceptable.

With a resigned sigh, I shook my head and muttered, "Looks like I'll have to make do with whatever's here," casting a skeptical glance at the limited options.

Once the potatoes had softened, I grabbed another pan to fry them with some spices, aiming for my version of mashed potatoes. I tossed in freshly chopped green chilies from Ezra's garden, mixing everything together before setting it aside to cool.

Next, I sprinkled some dry flour onto the cleaned countertop, creating a smooth surface to roll the dough.

"No wonder you skipped dinner," a sudden voice broke the silence, and I jumped, wide-eyed and startled as if caught red-handed in the act of theft.

My hand flew to my chest, trying to calm my racing heart.

"You scared me!" I snapped; my tone accusatory.

Leaning casually against the doorframe, Ansel looked like a shadow come to life in his all-black attire—a ribbed knit jumper and slacks that helped him blend seamlessly into the darkness.

His arms were crossed over his chest, his sapphire-blue eyes glinting faintly as they swept over me, taking in the scene.

I steadied my breath as he moved toward me, the calm intensity in his gaze making my pulse race for a different reason entirely.

"You should have told me if you were hungry, amina," Ansel said as he stepped closer, his presence commanding yet calm. He glanced at the setup on the counter, his eyes taking everything in. "I could have made something for you."

I sighed, turning away slightly as I picked up a small ball of dough, gently rolling it between my palms. "I don't think you'd know how to make what I'm making."

Ansel's gaze lingered, curious and focused. "And what exactly are you making?"

His scrutiny made me feel self-conscious, and I silently wished he wasn't here.