The cooking surface had only just begun to radiate steady heat when Amor reached for the long kitchen knife laid beside the vegetables.
Valdor had expected him to hesitate, perhaps waiting for a restaurant attendant to slice the ingredients or asking for one of the smaller decorative blades used by noble households. Instead, Amor tested the knife’s balance, adjusted his grip, and began cutting the onions into even pieces with quick, economical movements. His technique lacked the ornamental precision of a trained palace chef, but every slice was controlled, practical, and remarkably efficient. Valdor watched closely.
Amor’s fingers curled safely away from the blade, his wrist remaining loose despite the fresh bandage, while his other hand kept each ingredient stable against the board. He wasted almost nothing, trimming only the thin outer skin from the onion and setting aside the edible portion another person might have discarded without thought. Even the uneven ends were cut smaller and added to a bowl intended for the broth.
"You have done this before."
Valdor said. Amor did not look up.
"Most people have cut an onion."
"Not most nobles."
"That sounds like a failure in noble education."
Valdor accepted the answer only temporarily. Amor moved next to the peppers, removing the stems and seeds with such deliberate care that barely any flesh remained attached to the discarded parts. He separated everything according to purpose, setting the clean vegetable scraps beside the stock ingredients rather than mixing them carelessly with the waste container. The speed of his hands belonged to someone accustomed to making every usable portion count.
The skill did not match the image Amor presented. His silk coat, moonstone earrings, delicate complexion, and carefully arranged hair suggested a man who had never prepared food without servants standing nearby. Yet he handled the knife as though hunger had once made mistakes unacceptable. Valdor recognized the difference immediately because Blackstone children learned in much the same way, though they did so surrounded by elders rather than necessity.
Amor noticed his stare.
"What?"
He asked.
"You cut like someone who has cooked when food was scarce."
The blade paused. Only for a moment. Amor resumed slicing with a composure that arrived slightly too carefully.
"A person need not experience scarcity to understand efficiency."
"No..."
Valdor’s voice remained calm, but his eyes did not leave Amor’s hands.
"But understanding and memory move differently."
Amor placed the final pepper strip into the bowl. He could feel the warrior’s attention pressing against the edges of a truth he had no safe method of explaining. Lovell’s memories did not belong within this world, and no reasonable person would accept that Amor Moons had once cooked contaminated scraps over a fire hidden inside a ruined train station. Even if Valdor believed him, the revelation would invite questions about death, transmigration, and a novel whose characters considered themselves real.
Amor reached for the mushrooms. Before Valdor could pursue the subject, a waiter approached their table carrying a tray of clean glasses, folded napkins, and several small ceramic pitchers. He was a young human man with copper-colored hair, a neatly pressed green apron, and the practiced pleasant expression of someone accustomed to guiding customers through the restaurant’s unusual dining process. His gaze moved briefly across the ingredients, ensuring neither guest required immediate assistance.
"What would the couple like to drink?"
He asked. The serving tongs slipped from Amor’s fingers. They struck the edge of the table with a sharp metallic clatter before landing safely beside the vegetable bowl. No food spilled, and the utensil never touched the floor, yet the waiter immediately reached forward and removed it.
"I apologize, my lord. I will bring a fresh one."
Amor barely heard him. His pink eyes had widened.
"The what?"
He asked. The waiter stopped. Amor’s face began warming before the answer arrived, but pride prevented him from pretending he had misunderstood.
"Wh-wh-why would you think we’re a couple!?"
Valdor turned toward him. The waiter looked from Amor to the enormous warrior seated so closely beside him, then toward the matching aprons, shared ingredients, linked assortment of sauces, and Valdor’s medical pouch resting near Amor’s freshly wrapped wrist. Realization spread across his expression, followed quickly by alarm. He bowed so deeply that the glasses on his tray shifted.
"Forgive me, Young Lord!"
He said.
"I should not have assumed!"
Amor opened his fan despite standing beside an active cooking surface.
"You assumed with remarkable confidence!"
"Yes, my lord. I am sincerely sorry..."
The waiter straightened cautiously, his face nearly as red as Amor’s.
"This establishment receives many courting couples, particularly those from different peoples or cultural backgrounds. Our menu allows both guests to select familiar ingredients and prepare them together, so the restaurant has developed something of a reputation for accommodating partners whose customary diets differ."
Amor’s fan slowed.
"’Different peoples’?"
He repeated. The waiter nodded.
"Yes, my lord."
Amor looked around the restaurant properly for the first time.
Until now, his attention had remained almost entirely upon Valdor, the ingredients, and the waste-recovery policies that made The Open Hearth appealing. The surrounding tables had registered only as movement and sound along the edges of his awareness. Once he actually examined them, the pattern became impossible to miss.
Nearly every cooking station seated two people. At the table nearest the courtyard, a broad-shouldered wolf beastman carefully turned thin vegetables upon the grill while a silver-haired elf beside him stirred an aromatic sauce. The elf’s pointed ears tilted whenever the beastman spoke, and one clawed hand rested possessively but gently upon the back of the elf’s chair. Their plates contained entirely different portions, yet both occasionally reached across to taste what the other had prepared.
Across the aisle, a human woman laughed while her companion—a druid whose moss-green hair contained tiny living blossoms—attempted to prevent climbing herbs from wrapping around the cooking utensils. The druid finally surrendered and allowed one vine to steal a mushroom from the bowl, which only made the human laugh harder. Their shoulders touched continuously despite the open space around them.
Near the rear wall sat a demon and a fairy. The demon possessed short black horns, dark red skin, and eyes glowing faintly beneath the shade of his brow, while the fairy beside him appeared small enough that several cushions had been stacked beneath her chair. Translucent wings shimmered behind her whenever she leaned forward, and the demon patiently cut every portion into pieces suitable for her size. In return, she kept adding bright handfuls of herbs to his food whenever he looked away.
They were mismatched in shape, custom, and species.
They were also unmistakably happy.
Amor’s attention traveled farther. There were humans dining with elves, beastfolk sharing meals with horned mountain clans, and a pale river spirit seated opposite a dark-skinned mercenary whose plate contained almost nothing requiring water. Some pairs behaved shyly, while others carried the relaxed familiarity of relationships measured in years rather than weeks. No one seemed concerned that love had crossed the borders of race or culture.
’How had I not seen them?’
The answer came with uncomfortable simplicity. The novel had not considered them important.
The original story focused so completely upon Alphonsins, Celestine, and the noble court surrounding their romance that entire populations existed only as passing references. Elves appeared in descriptions of imported fabrics, beastmen were mentioned when discussing mercenaries, demons belonged to distant religious warnings, and fairies were treated as convenient explanations for enchanted jewelry. Their lives, homes, desires, and relationships existed beyond the edge of the written plot.
Just as Valdor had existed.
Just as the Blackstone Tribe had continued living after the abandoned side plot vanished.
Amor stared at the restaurant with a strange pressure growing beneath his ribs. This world had always been larger than the novel that described it, filled with people whose stories remained unseen because they did not support the heroine’s romance. His arrival had not created those lives; it had merely allowed him to look away from the narrow path the original narrative demanded.
The realization should have remained philosophical. Then Amor looked at Valdor.
The warrior sat beside him in layered charcoal robes, dark fur, and bronze-edged fabric, his black markings displayed proudly through the tailored openings. The refined clothing had not made him less foreign, merely allowed the capital to see the beauty within that difference more clearly. His expression remained softly stoic, touched now by faint confusion as he waited for Amor to finish silently examining the entire restaurant.
Amor’s heart skipped. The reaction was so sudden that his breath caught.
Valdor’s obsidian eyes sharpened immediately, noticing the pause, the deepening color across Amor’s cheeks, and the way his fingers tightened around the fan. Concern began entering his expression. Amor looked away before the warrior could reach for his forehead and diagnose another imaginary fever.
He had forgotten what he was thinking. For one brief, humiliating moment, every mismatched couple in the room disappeared beneath the simple fact that Valdor was looking at him. The warrior’s gaze carried no impatience, judgment, or expectation. He simply waited, giving Amor space to understand whatever had unsettled him.
The waiter cleared his throat nervously. Amor flinched.
"My lord..."
The young man said.
"May I ask what you would like to drink?"
The original question returned with all its embarrassment. Amor snapped his fan closed.
"Sweet tea!"
"Hot or chilled?"
"Chilled, with lemon and honey."
The waiter bowed.
"Of course."
Valdor looked toward the drink menu, though the written kingdom names appeared to offer little assistance.
"Beer."
The waiter waited. Valdor added.
"Large."
"How large, honored sir?"
Valdor held his hands apart. The waiter stared at the indicated distance.
"I will bring our largest mug..."
He promised.
"And a clean utensil."
Amor reminded him.
"Yes, Young Lord."
The waiter retreated with such speed that his apron stirred behind him. Amor watched him cross the restaurant, still painfully conscious of the word couple. The correction should have ended the matter, yet instead it remained lodged within his thoughts, gathering weight from every surrounding table. He and Valdor did resemble the others.
They had arrived together.
They had chosen ingredients according to each other’s preferences, sat close enough for their shoulders to touch, and intended to cook a shared meal. Valdor had knelt before him in public, tended his injury, and dressed in clothing Amor selected. Amor had spent the entire morning admiring him, defending him, holding his hand, and inventing increasingly weak reasons to deny the outing was a date.
’How did I reach this point?’
Only days ago, his goal had been simple:
End the relationship with Alphonsins, avoid the villain’s death, and enjoy the wealth surrounding his second life. He had wanted peace, indulgence, and enough distance from the novel’s main story to ensure no fatal scene found him. Romance had not been part of the plan.
Then Valdor arrived.
The warrior had entered House Moons as an abandoned side character from a plot Amor barely remembered, carrying a world of customs, family, grief, and tenderness the novel never explored. Within two days, he had become the person Amor searched for at breakfast, dressed to impress, invited into the capital, and associated instinctively with safety. None of it felt sudden when examined piece by piece.
Perhaps that was the most frightening part. His feelings had not appeared in one dramatic revelation.
They had accumulated quietly through linked arms, shared food, warm medicine, careful permission, and a hand offered from inside a carriage. Each moment seemed small enough to dismiss until together they formed something impossible to ignore. Amor had been moving toward Valdor from the instant he chose to descend the staircase and welcome the envoys.
His heart had merely noticed before his mind agreed. Valdor placed the knife down.
"What is wrong?"
Amor turned toward him.
"Nothing!"
The warrior waited. Amor recognized the familiar refusal to accept a vague answer and sighed.
"I am thinking."
"You became quiet."
"That occasionally happens while thinking."
"Not like this."
Valdor’s gaze moved over his face.
"You are warm again."
"I am not ill!"
"I know."
That immediate assurance unsettled Amor in an entirely different way. Valdor had learned.
He no longer interpreted every blush as sickness, which meant the warrior might understand precisely what caused this one. Amor’s face became warmer at the possibility. Valdor leaned slightly closer.
"Did the waiter offend you?"
"No."
"He called us a couple."
"I heard him."
"You dropped the tool."
"The connection has been sufficiently established!"
Valdor looked around the restaurant. His attention settled upon the surrounding pairs with the same careful observation Amor had used moments earlier. He saw the beastman cutting meat for the elf, the demon adjusting cushions for the fairy, and the human woman wiping sauce from the druid’s cheek. Understanding entered his expression gradually.
Amor watched him. Until that moment, he had assumed Valdor might not know how they appeared to others. Blackstone customs differed from kingdom courtship, and perhaps cooking, hand-holding, feeding, and constant physical closeness carried entirely different meanings among his people. The waiter’s mistake could have embarrassed or disturbed him once explained.
Valdor showed no discomfort. That absence should have reassured Amor. Instead, it made him more curious.
Perhaps the warrior simply did not care what strangers assumed. Perhaps he had not yet understood the full implication. Or perhaps Valdor considered the comparison acceptable in a way Amor was not prepared to examine.
The uncertainty became unbearable. Amor reached for the mushrooms to occupy his hands, then realized Valdor continued watching him. He set them down again.
"What did you think?"
He asked.
Valdor tilted his head slightly.
"About what?"
"When the waiter called us a couple."
The question emerged more quietly than Amor intended. Nearby oil hissed upon another table’s grill, and someone laughed across the courtyard, but the sounds seemed to recede as Valdor considered him. Amor tried to appear casual, though his fingers had tightened around the handle of the unused knife. The answer suddenly felt far more important than the situation justified.
Valdor looked toward the surrounding pairs again.
"I thought he saw us."
Amor blinked.
"That is not an answer."
"It is..."
Valdor returned his gaze to him.
"He looked at us and believed we were together."
"Yes, I understand the sequence of events."
"You ask what I thought."
Amor’s patience strained.
"Did it bother you?"
"No."
The answer came without hesitation. Amor’s pulse shifted.
"Did it embarrass you?"
"No."
"Did you believe he was foolish?"
Valdor considered this longer.
"No."
Amor stared. Valdor remained calm beneath the interrogation, apparently unaware—or fully aware—of what each denial implied. The warrior’s apron shifted low to frame his chest as he leaned beside the cooking table, one broad hand resting near Amor’s bandaged wrist without touching it. His expression held only honesty.
"Then what did you believe?"
Amor asked. Valdor’s eyes moved slowly across his face.
"That he saw what I want."
The knife slipped in Amor’s hand. This time, Valdor caught it before it could strike the table. His fingers closed around the handle just beneath Amor’s, steadying both the utensil and the delicate hand holding it. Their eyes met above the cutting board. Amor forgot the surrounding restaurant entirely.
"’What you want’?"
He repeated.
"Yes..."
Valdor released the knife only after ensuring Amor had regained control.
"I want to be beside you. Eat with you. Walk with you. Hold your hand when you allow it."
Each statement landed with quiet force. Valdor did not dress the desire in courtship poetry, nor did he make promises too grand for two people who had known one another only days as adults. He described exactly what he wanted now, without pretending the future had already been decided. The restraint made the confession more intimate rather than less. Amor’s throat felt dry.
"That does not necessarily make us a couple."
"No..."
Valdor’s expression remained soft.
"But I would not be displeased if others believed it."
Amor looked down. His fingers traced the edge of the cutting board without purpose.
"You are remarkably comfortable saying things that leave me unable to respond."
"You respond."
"With embarrassment!"
"I like your embarrassment."
"I am aware! Humph!"
Valdor touched one knuckle beneath Amor’s chin, stopping before applying enough pressure to lift it. The gesture waited as a question. Amor raised his face willingly.
"What did you think?"
Valdor asked. Amor’s eyes widened.
"That’s unfair."
"You asked first."
"I am permitted to investigate!"
"So am I."
Valdor’s logic remained infuriatingly difficult to challenge. Amor glanced around the restaurant once more.
The surrounding couples continued cooking, laughing, and feeding one another without paying attention to the emotional crisis unfolding at his table. A beastman reached across to adjust the elf’s sleeve away from the flame. The fairy placed a tiny kiss upon the demon’s horn when he successfully prepared her preferred sauce.
They looked happy.
No one had assigned them roles within a story. They had simply chosen one another.
Amor looked back at Valdor.
"I thought the waiter was mistaken—"
He admitted. The warrior’s expression did not change, though the warmth around him dimmed slightly. Amor noticed and continued quickly.
"Then I looked around..."
Valdor waited.
"And I understood why he assumed it."
"Because we cook together."
"Among other things."
"We hold hands."
"Yes."
"I fed you."
"Several times."
"You dressed for me."
Amor’s face burned.
"That was never confirmed!"
"You said you wanted me to see you."
"I was emotionally compromised!"
Valdor’s mouth curved faintly. Amor exhaled, surrendering the defense.
"I thought about how we appear..."
He said.
"And how we arrived here..."
Valdor’s gaze became intent. Amor’s voice softened.
"I did not dislike it."
The admission rested between them.
It was smaller than Valdor’s honesty, guarded by qualifications and delivered with visible effort, yet the warrior received it as though Amor had placed something precious within his hands. The warmth returned to his expression, stronger than before.
"You would not be displeased, hm?"
Valdor said. Amor narrowed his eyes.
"Do not repeat my feelings in your words!"
"You did it to me."
"I am delicate and therefore exempt from accusations of hypocrisy! Humph!"
Valdor looked over Amor’s narrow body and flowing clothing.
"You are not delicate inside."
The observation silenced him. Amor wondered how much Valdor had already seen.
The warrior recognized survival beneath his cooking, pain beneath his silence, and strength beneath every soft layer the original Amor used to deceive the world. He had looked beyond appearances without demanding Amor surrender them. That understanding felt more intimate than the word couple itself. The waiter returned.
He carried Amor’s chilled sweet tea in a tall glass filled with lemon slices and Valdor’s beer in a wooden mug nearly the size of a small barrel. A fresh set of serving tongs rested upon a folded cloth beside the drinks. He approached cautiously, as though fearing he had already caused enough emotional damage for one meal.
"Your drinks, my lords."
He said. Valdor accepted the beer. Amor reached for the tea, grateful for the distraction.
The waiter placed the clean tongs beside him, then looked between them with visible determination not to make another assumption.
"Is there anything else I can bring for... either guest?"
Amor almost felt sorry for him.
"No..."
He said.
"Thank you."
The waiter bowed. Before leaving, he glanced toward their joined hands.
Amor looked down. At some point during the conversation, Valdor’s fingers had closed around his beneath the edge of the table. Amor had not noticed when it happened. He made no effort to pull away.
The waiter retreated with a tiny, private smile. Amor raised the sweet tea and drank deeply. Valdor lifted his enormous mug.
Neither mentioned what the waiter now almost certainly believed.
The cooking surface continued warming, waiting for their ingredients. Amor set down his glass, released Valdor’s hand only long enough to retrieve the new tongs, and began arranging the vegetables upon the heated plate. Valdor added meat to the grill beside them. Their shoulders touched.
The surrounding restaurant no longer felt like evidence against Amor’s denial. It felt like permission. Perhaps they were not a couple.
Not yet.
But when Valdor stood beside him, chose food with him, protected his wrist, and watched every practical movement as though Amor contained a mystery worth learning, the possibility no longer seemed frightening. It felt warm, unfamiliar, and unexpectedly close to the safety Amor had spent two lives seeking.
Valdor turned a slice of meat.
"Amor?"
"Yes?"
"You still have not explained how you learned to cut food that way."
Amor’s hand paused above the peppers.
The moment of romance had not distracted him after all. Valdor waited with patient curiosity, and Amor looked down at the ingredients they had promised not to waste. He was not ready to reveal Lovell’s entire history. Yet for the first time, he found himself considering whether someone might eventually deserve to hear it.
"Another day."
Amor said. Valdor studied him. Then he inclined his head.
"Then another day."
He accepted the boundary without disappointment or pressure. Amor smiled softly and placed the peppers upon the heat.
Another day meant there would be another day together.
For now, that promise was enough.