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Chapter 694:

“It’s fine.” He took the spoon from her other hand and stirred the water. Tasted it. Made a face that might have been amusement. “It’s salty. We’ll adapt p>

“Easton, I can’t serve you p>

“You’re not serving me.” He turned off the burner and moved the pot to a back element. “We’re cooking together. And sometimes—” he reached past her for the olive oil, his arm brushing her shoulder, “—sometimes things don’t go according to plan. You adjust p>

He was talking about more than pasta.

June watched him rescue the sauce—adding extra tomatoes, a splash of wine, balancing the salt with acid and sweetness. His movements were confident, unhurried, the opposite of the violence she had witnessed in the garage.

“Where did you learn to cook?” she asked.

“Law school.” He didn’t look up from the pan. “Ramen and regret, remember? But my grandmother—” he paused, something softening in his face, “—she believed a man should feed himself. Should feed others. Said it was the difference between existing and living p>

They ate at the kitchen island, perched on stools, plates of salvaged pasta between them.

June took her first bite. Braced for the salt, the disaster, the proof that she had failed at something as simple as dinner.

It was good. Not perfect—the salt was still present, a sharp edge beneath the tomatoes and garlic—but good. More than good. Honest.

𝘗𝘋𝘍𝗌 о𝗇

Easton was watching her. Waiting.

“It’s—” she started.

“Don’t lie p>

She laughed. Surprised herself. “It’s salty. It’s really, really salty p>

“But p>

“But—” she took another bite, chewed, swallowed, “—but I can taste what it was supposed to be. What I was trying to make p>

Easton nodded and took another bite of his own, chewing with apparent satisfaction.

“Easton.” She set her fork down. “How are you eating that? It’s p>

“Delicious p>

“It’s seawater. It’s p>

“It’s yours.” He looked at her, his eyes absolutely, terrifyingly open. “You made it. You tried, when you could have ordered in, could have retreated, could have done a thousand easier things. You stood in my kitchen and you cooked. Salt and all.” He took another bite, deliberate, unhurried. “I’ll eat anything you make, June. Salt. Burn. Disaster. Because you made it. Because you tried p>

The words hit her chest like a physical blow.

She thought of Cole, who had never eaten anything she cooked without critique. Who had sent back plates, demanded changes, treated her efforts like servants’ work.

She thought of Crawford, who would have swept her into a restaurant, ordered for her, controlled even the experience of nourishment.

Easton was eating her failure. Celebrating it. Finding value in the attempt, not the result.

“You’re insane,” she whispered.

“Probably.” He finished his plate, set it aside, and reached for her hand. “But I’m also yours. Salt and all p>

June looked at their joined hands. At the kitchen around them—his space, his sanctuary, opened to her. At the man who had moved through that garage like something dangerous tonight, and who was now eating her mistakes without complaint.

She stood. Moved to the sink. Dumped the rest of the pasta into the disposal.

“Hey p>