Chapter 57 - 61
Avara POV
I settle behind the outside bar of the kitchen where Vance stands at the island with dangling kitchenware near his head. I ease onto the well-supported stool, dull pain flaring through my bottom. Vance watches with entertainment etched in his features, grinning and goofier in this moment than all of the time I have known him for.
"I’m glad at least one of us is amused," I comment dryly.
"I’d watch that tone if I was you," he cautions with a fleeting facade of seriousness before he breaks into another humored grin. "Or did someone not learn from their spanking?"
Impulse makes me flip up a hand of surrender.
"Good girl."
He turns his back to me, rustling through the pantry shelves as if he knows exactly where everything is hidden in the mess of cans and other preservatives. His hand emerges with a tin of tuna, dusty and slightly dented but still sealed. He moves to the cabinet next, pushing aside an assortment of forgotten spices until he locates a half-used bottle of cooking oil, holding it up with a small victorious grin. Finally, he crouches down to the lowest cupboard, his fingers brushing over a jumbled assortment of jars and packets before he finds what he’s looking for—a full, untouched bag of pasta with a familiar logo, one that’s seen better days but still clings to a promise of nourishment.
He straightens up, arms full, and drops the ingredients onto the counter, lining them up with a thoughtful gaze as though they’re pieces of a grand culinary puzzle.
"Is that even edible?" I ask, eyeing the pasta with open skepticism.
The faded, crinkling plastic doesn’t inspire much confidence, and I can’t help but widen my eyes as he inspects it as if to actually consider its consumption.
"Three weeks until the due date." He shrugs, grinning in an uncanny unconcerned kind of way. "We’ll be fine."
He busies himself around the kitchen, retrieving a pot, filling it with water from the tap, and placing it on the stove. He pauses, casting a wary look at the old appliance as if assessing whether it’s up for the task. With a tentative twist of the dial, he coaxes the ancient burner to life, its uneven flame flickering like an old man’s breath. Next, he grabs a heavy cast iron skillet, the surface worn smooth from years of use, and sets it beside the pot, preparing a space for the tuna.
There’s a quiet rhythm to his movements, as though he’s done this a thousand times, as though he had done it all here before. He adds a generous glug of oil to the pan, its amber sheen catching the light, and waits for it to shimmer with heat, his fingers tapping the counter softly. The scent of cooking oil begins to fill the air, blending with the faint tang of the old stove like charred wood. He pulls a draw open, examines it, pushes it back and pulls open another—rifling through it before he pulls out the can opener. He unscrews the lid and drains the fatty grease before pouring it into the pan.