Her POV
I added water to the pot, dumped in a generous handful of rice, tossed in a pinch of salt, and set the mixture on the edge of the fire, confident that this would be a straightforward task.
Easy.
Five minutes later, smoke began to curl upwards—definitely not the fragrant kind that hinted at a delightful meal.
I frowned and gave the pot a stir. What I saw was baffling: the water had transformed into a thick, starchy concoction, reminiscent of paste. Some of the rice had disintegrated into mush, while the bottom layer was quickly charring, sending acrid burnt smells wafting through the air. Panic began to set in as I desperately added more water, but that only exacerbated the disaster. The fire hissed and sputtered menacingly.
With each stir, I felt the spoon scrape against the bottom, dragging up a burnt layer stuck like tar to the pot.
Sweat dripped down my brow, a mixture of stress and humiliation heating my cheeks.
No. No. No.
I glanced over toward him.
From the window, I could see him. He hadn't looked up once, his focus fully on the deer meat he was slowly rotating over the fire, an image of calm concentration. It was as if he were determined to ignore the disaster unraveling behind him.
Yet the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement, giving him away.
After a moment of silence, I sensed his presence before I heard him approach—heavy, almost palpable, like a shadow lingering behind me.
Then his voice cut through the stillness, flat yet tinged with amusement. "You trying to cook me dinner or kill me?"
I tightened my grip on the spoon, the metal cold against my palm. "It's fine," I muttered, though I could feel my cheeks heating up.
Turning, I instinctively positioned myself to hide the chaotic scene behind me. "I… It's not what it looks like," I stammered, desperate to downplay the evidence of my culinary disaster.
"Is it?" he replied dryly, his gaze piercing. "Because it sure smells like charcoal pudding. I figured that out when you attempted to bandage yourself as if you were gift-wrapping a watermelon."
My embarrassment deepened. "It's just rice!" I protested, trying to salvage some semblance of dignity.
"That's what makes this tragic," he said, rising from his spot. He walked over, his expression a mixture of disbelief and resignation as he glanced into the pot, exhaling a heavy sigh as if I had offended his ancestors personally with my cooking.
"You're so full of yourself," I shot back, my impatience flaring.
He assessed the charred remnants in the pot, then turned his gaze back to me. "You claimed you knew how to cook."
"I never stated I couldn't cook," I defended, frustration tingeing my tone. "You jumped to conclusions."
He nodded slowly, a mocking smile creeping onto his lips. "Ah, my mistake. Should've guessed by the way you were violently attacking that poor pot."
"Move," I demanded, feeling a mix of defeat and urgency.
"I can fix it," he insisted confidently.
"You can't! You're combining soup, glue, and ashes all at once. NOW MOVE!" My voice echoed in the small kitchen, my temper flaring.
Stepping aside, I surrendered. "Fine. Go ahead, Mr. Forest Gordon Ramsay. Impress me."
With deliberate precision, he dumped the entire charred contents of the pot into the sink, rinsing it without a hint of hesitation. He began anew, filling the pot with fresh water, meticulously measuring the rice and placing a proper lid on top. Within minutes, the rice was simmering gently, producing a soothing, aromatic steam that filled the air—a stark contrast to the chaotic previous attempt.
He moved with a grace and determination that suggested every action in his life was calculated. Even in the kitchen, he exuded precision, focus, and an air of quiet confidence. I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him work with a blend of admiration and irritation.
"I was going to do it right next time," I mumbled, my voice nearly drowned out by the crackling of the fire.
"I won't risk my stomach on your 'next time,'" he muttered back, his tone laced with skepticism. I shot him a glare, my frustration bubbling beneath the surface.
"You live alone in the woods, and you cook like that?" I shot back, unable to hide my incredulity.
"Survival," he replied, his gaze still fixed on the task before him. "Unlike you, I don't rely on luck and strangers."
His words pierced deeper than I cared to admit. A lump formed in my throat, but I chose silence as I watched him. I observed the way his strong, calloused hands moved with purpose, the tension that lined his jaw when he concentrated. The air around him felt charged, rich with unspoken thoughts and layered emotions.
For the first time since our unexpected encounter, a realization dawned on me: there was far more to this arrogant, enigmatic stranger than I had initially perceived. A mix of fear and intrigue twisted within me, leaving me uncertain of which feeling to embrace.
He finished cooking the rice and carried the steaming pot outside, placing it on a rough-hewn table under the shelter of a sloped tin roof. I followed closely behind, feeling the cool night air wrap around me like an embrace.
He picked up a sturdy stick, expertly securing a seasoned piece of meat to it, and began roasting it over the crackling flames. I wrapped my arms around myself tightly, mesmerized by the way the firelight danced around him, casting flickering shadows across his rugged features.
A few minutes slipped by in silence before he broke it, his voice softening. "You'll eat this, right?"
I hesitated, the weight of his question hanging in the air.
He didn't wait for my answer. "It's either this or starvation."
"I'll eat," I muttered, trying to sound resolute. "Just don't expect any compliments."
"Good," he said simply, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "I hate talking during dinner."
He turned the meat once more, the savory aroma filling the air, before finally glancing at me. "Are you going to eat or just stare at me like I stabbed your pet?" he asked, his demeanor shifting back to its usual bravado.
I scowled at the thought. "You killed a deer. I'm still processing that."
"Do you want to survive out here or become a statue in the woods?" he shot back, his voice steady.
I had no response.
He hardly seemed to notice my silence; instead, he slid a piece of the fire-roasted meat onto a rough, makeshift metal plate. Without another word, he walked over and handed it to me, his expression revealing nothing.
I hesitated, the plate warm against my palm, the scent of the roasted meat wafting towards me.
"Go ahead," he said quietly. "It's not poisoned. I'd save that for someone more interesting."
I glared at him but took the plate anyway. The smell was better than I expected—smoky, rich, and oddly comforting. He crouched across from me by the fire, eating in silence. To him, sharing food with a stranger felt normal. He didn't seem bothered by the dark forest around us or the fact that I nearly died earlier.
I took a small bite. To my surprise, it was good. Really good. I didn't like that I was impressed, so I said nothing.
He didn't speak either. For a while, the only sounds were the crackling fire, the soft sound of us eating, and the unspoken truth between us: I was still alive. Because of him.
For the first time since we met, I thought maybe I could survive here. Not because he was kind, but because he was tough enough to survive and quiet enough to let me learn how.
We continued to eat in silence, sitting near the fire under the open sky. The meat was well-seasoned—smoky, tender, with a bit of heat. The rice was cooked perfectly—not burnt or sticky, just right.
Of course. He didn't comment. He didn't boast. He just ate calmly, his eyes on the fire, shadows moving across his face. I chewed slowly, still a little embarrassed but too hungry to care anymore.
When we finished eating, he stood up and took my plate without asking. He cleaned the table and put out the fire, all without saying a word.
As he walked toward the darker side of the cabin, he paused. He looked at me, his face hard to read in the dim light. Then he said, "Don't cook. Ever again."
He turned and walked into the shadows of the cabin, leaving me shocked. I blinked and opened my mouth, ready to argue, but he was already gone, disappearing like an annoying ghost.
What I didn't notice was the small smirk on one side of his mouth as he left. It was quick and hardly visible, like he didn't often allow himself to tease. But this time… he did.
And I had no idea.