In the living room, the Quinn family had unknowingly arranged themselves into a semi-circle around the coffee table—like spectators awaiting a fireworks show. Except the entertainment wasn't on TV.
It was in the kitchen.
"Val," Richard said, squinting toward the doorway, "does Aiden cook like this all the time?"
Another burst of fire flared up behind the kitchen archway.
This wasn't just someone overcooking dinner. This was intentional, confident heat—the kind that came from knowing exactly how far you could push a wok before disaster struck. Richard recognized it. He'd only pulled off that kind of flame-char once in his life, and it cost him half an eyebrow.
But Aiden? Calm as ever. One hand on the handle, the other flipping ingredients mid-air.
Valeria, still chewing on her thumbnail, gave a small nod. "Sometimes."
Her dad shot her a look. "And it tastes good?"
"Yep." Short answers were her only strategy now. The less she said, the fewer lies she had to remember.
Leo, lounging like he had stock in sarcasm, pointed with a chicken nugget. "So he's not just a journalist—he's a chef-slash-ninja?"
Valeria didn't bother looking his way. "Unlike you, he evolved past cereal and frozen burritos. In this economy, if you can't cook, you die hungry."
She glanced at her father for backup. "Right?"
Richard squared his shoulders, instantly recruited. "Absolutely. Your mother works twelve-hour shifts. If I couldn't handle a stovetop, we'd have lived off toast and resentment for two decades."
Leo scoffed, popping a nugget in his mouth. "Whatever. Restaurants are cleaner, anyway."
His dad turned to him, slow and ominous. "Do you know what kind of oil they use? Or if that 'chicken' was actually thawed this morning and not last Tuesday?"
Leo shrugged. "Dude, air is toxic now. You think I'm worried about old chicken?"
Then the doorbell rang.
Leo sprang up like he was born for it. Moments later, he returned with a jumbo-sized paper bag soaked in grease.
As he opened it, the smell of deep-fried everything filled the room.
"Since no one else is claiming it…" he said, already fishing out fries.
Valeria stared at him. "You're eating that… while a three-course meal is happening in the next room?"
"Four-course," Leo corrected, unwrapping a burger with a grin. "Let's not insult my combo meal."
The sound of Aiden's voice cut through the air: "Dinner's ready!"
Valeria bolted upright. "Coming!"
She jogged to the kitchen, anticipation written all over her face.
First up: chilled cucumber noodle salad. Toasted sesame, garlic, vinegar, and chili oil. A symphony of flavor and crunch.
Next: sautéed bok choy with shiitake mushrooms. Bright greens, tender mushrooms—simple, elegant, perfect.
Her anxiety—the fear, the pressure, the constant tightness in her chest—began to loosen. Not vanish. But loosen. This wasn't chaos anymore. It was an actual meal. A beautiful one.
She turned, plates in hand. "Cucumber salad! Bok choy and mushrooms!"
Leo glanced up from his fries. "That's it?"
Valeria didn't answer. She had no time for flavorless commentary.
Back she went—returning with steamed shrimp smothered in garlic and a dish of sautéed sour cabbage.
Leo wrinkled his nose. "What are we even doing here? Just say 'shrimp.' All this 'sautéed' stuff sounds like a Yelp review."
Richard smacked the back of his head—not hard, just enough to say "know your lane."
Leo sulked. Not because of the hit, but because he realized criticizing the food meant insulting both Aiden and his dad. Not smart.
Valeria kept going. "Dad—your favorite: beef tripe stir-fry. Mom—your favorite: pan-seared fish."
Victoria blinked. "Wait, how'd he know I like fish?"
Richard looked at his daughter. "You told him?"
Valeria shrugged. "Maybe."
She hadn't. But magic didn't need explanations.
"Twice-cooked pork. Stir-fried flank steak. Shredded pork in barbecue sauce. And… meatballs."
She smiled, placing the last plate down with flair.
Ten dishes. Full table. Full hearts.
"Mom, Dad—come have a taste of Aiden's cooking."
Richard stood without hesitation. His eyes scanned the table: neatly plated, color-balanced, thoughtfully assembled. It mirrored the exact meal he'd planned to cook that day. The only switch? Aiden had swapped steamed pork for a more ambitious pork belly dish.
And nailed it.
Richard looked at the young man emerging from the kitchen.
You're one of us, he thought. A kitchen guy. A feeder. A doer.
"Aiden," he said warmly, "sit down. Eat with us."
Aiden dried his hands and gave a small smile. "You did all the prep work, sir. I just followed the blueprint."
Richard nodded.
This one's good.
Valeria grabbed a bottle of bourbon and four glasses. "We need a toast."
Leo appeared behind her with a soda in hand. "Don't forget me."
"You get cola. That's your speed," she said flatly.
She poured quietly and looked at her parents. "We messed up. We got married too fast, didn't tell you… It wasn't right. But we're here now. And we want to fix it."
Aiden stood. "It was reckless. I know. But I care about her. I'm not asking for instant approval—just the chance to earn it."
Victoria and Richard exchanged a glance.
This morning, they were ready to break this man apart. But now?
He hadn't flinched. Hadn't argued. Hadn't begged.
He just cooked. And that said more than words ever could.
Victoria raised her glass, eyes unreadable. "Time will tell."
Valeria smiled. That wasn't forgiveness—but it wasn't rejection either.
Richard followed. "It's not what you say. It's what you do. If she's happy, we'll come around. If she's not…"
He paused. "Then you'll answer to us."
Aiden's grip on his glass tightened. "Understood."
Valeria nudged his foot beneath the table. "Relax. We'll be happy."
He turned to look at her, stunned for a second. She didn't blink.
He was impulsive, guarded, scarred by love. And yet this woman—with all her fire—kept standing beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He let out a breath.
They were both fighters.
And whatever came next, they'd handle it like they handled everything else: side by side, and just a little bit reckless.