Cameron To Candy

They had spent most of the afternoon cleaning out Cameron’s old house, packing the last of his books, tools, and small relics of a bachelor life that felt impossibly distant now. When the cart was finally loaded, Candy brushed the dust from her skirt and turned to Marcus with a grin that was both wistful and mischievous.

“Hey,” she said, pointing down the sloped street. “We’re here already. Let’s eat at The Bachelor’s Block.”

Marcus followed her gaze to a lopsided sign half-swallowed by ivy. “That place?” he asked, incredulous. “How did that even pass inspection season?”

“I’m guessing barely,” Candy said cheerfully. “That’s part of the charm.”

He groaned. “Charm isn’t supposed to smell like grease and despair.”

She laughed, already stepping toward it. “You’ll see.”

Cooking had never been discouraged outright for men in Paddlewick; it just wasn’t encouraged. They learned enough to make it through a few years of bachelorhood before marriage rendered the skill politely unnecessary. Once a man was wed, his wife cooked for him as a matter of order and tradition, not choice.

Because of that, there were only a couple of hundred paid cooking positions for men in the entire kingdom, army quartermasters, ministry chefs, and a handful of elite restaurateurs who primarily just provided the needed male oversight.

Marcus, ironically, was one of the few who could actually cook well. He liked it. Had he lived in Cleavendale or Bellefemme, he might have been a sous-chef somewhere charming, with applause instead of inspection notes. But Paddlewick didn’t need him to be creative, or coulinarily competent so he’d never been given a formal opportunity to cook professionally.

Cameron, on the other hand, had barely been competent with a kettle. He’d survived those years of single life thanks entirely to the Bachelor District, rows of brick lodgings and communal kitchens built to feed young, unmarried men.

Some lodgings had Hearth Contracts, run by retired matrons who offered what they called home-cooked guidance. They filled bellies and gave unsolicited motherly advice at the same time. Cameron had often eaten at Mrs. Blamley’s Hearth, where the meat pies were comforting and the lectures came free with seconds. Whether you wanted them or not.

But sometimes even the most obedient son of Paddlewick wanted something different, something cheap, fast, and gloriously unregulated.

That’s when he went to The Bachelor’s Block.

It wasn’t attached to any lodging and barely passed ministry inspections. It was a dive that sold fried heartburn on chipped plates. For all its culinary sins, it had important redeeming qualities: it was open late, it was cheap, and it didn’t judge.

Now, months since the last time Cameron had been there, Candy pushed through its door.

The air inside was thick with steam and chatter. Long tables crowded with men in their twenties, laughing too loudly and eating too fast. The clatter of plates, the hiss of a pan, and the distinct smell of oil that had seen too many shifts.

The moment she stepped in, heads turned. A woman, here. In the bachelor's district? The sound dipped for half a heartbeat as eyes flicked her way, curious or confused, before the din resumed.

Candy smiled at the attention, pretending not to notice. “Ah. Smells like freedom and fried potato.”

Marcus grimaced. “Smells like regret with an extra large side of stomach acid.”

They found an open booth by the wall. The table rocked slightly when Candy leaned on it. “Home sweet dump,” she said fondly.

Marcus sat down, arms crossed. “You actually ate here?”

“Frequently,” she said. “I couldn’t couldn’t cook as Cameron to save my life, remember? This place kept me alive. Barely.”

“You still can’t cook to save your life.” Marcus pointed out. “And this is weird. I mean, it’s the kind of place I would have thought you’d endlessly complain about the possibility of it killing you. Where’s the trademark Alister sarcasm? Marcus asked, incredulously.

“Eh,” Candy shrugged. “Don’t underestimate the power of nostalgia.”

A young waiter approached, his apron permanently stained. “Evenin’. Stew, dinner omelet, or mystery plate?”

Candy perked up. “Dinner omelet. Extra cheese.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know what kind of cheese that is.”

“Oh, no, I know,” she said confidently. “It’s gouda.”

He blinked. “Green gouda?”

“Yeah. Definitely green gouda.”

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be that color.”

She shrugged. “Must’ve always been. I always liked it.”

When the food arrived, Marcus’s face said everything. The omelet glistened in shades that eggs should never wear, the green cheese bubbling lazily like a potion gone wrong. His own plate, plain potatoes and steak, looked endangered just by proximity.

He poked at her omelet with his fork. “That’s alive.”

“It’s flavorful,” she said, taking a big bite.

He watched in disbelief. “Candy, you’re going to need divine intervention.”

She chewed happily, then smiled. “Mmm. Just as awful as I remember.”

“Awful?”

“Deliciously awful,” she corrected. “It tastes like my late teens and poor decisions.”

A few of the nearby bachelors chuckled, raising their mugs. “To poor decisions!” one called.

Candy raised her fork in salute. “And to green gouda!”

Marcus sighed and, against his better judgment, cut off a tiny piece from the corner of her omelet. “I’m only doing this so I can say I tried.”

He popped it into his mouth. Chewed once. Then stopped. His entire face went rigid.

Candy tilted her head. “Well?”

He swallowed with visible effort. “I think… I just met the god of flavor. And He disapproves.”

Candy laughed so hard the table shook. “Told you it builds character.”

Marcus reached for his water, eyes watering. “And erodes taste buds.”

She winked. “Welcome to The Block.”

Two days later, back at their home, a knock came from the front door. Marcus answered it.

"Oh, Mrs. Prim, what a... lovely, surprise to see you."