Chapter 354: Chapter 354: Don’t change it
"Cyrus, I know she will. You know she secretly has a sweet tooth, even though she always tells us too much sweet isn’t good for our health and body if we plan on staying in shape." Ophelia’s smile turned teasing. "But she loves sweet. She will definitely love this."
Glimora squeaked sharply as if to add: And so do I, hello? She reached a tiny hand toward the bowl, then pulled it back when Cyrus flicked her a look that said "rules." She rolled into Ophelia’s elbow with a doomed sigh, then peered up again five heartbeats later because patience is not a trait she was born with.
The kitchen wrapped around them in warm layers. Fire clicked softly in the stones. The air held three things—coconut, honey, and the clean breath of the cool draft Cyrus had called to keep the bowl perfect. Outside the doorway, Valen shifted his weight. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, face set in that careful line between soldier and friend. His eyes stayed on Ophelia’s hands as if he could glare the pain away.
Cyrus rinsed the spoon again, always neat, always safe, then set it down. "If the sweetness is too strong," he said, "I can fold in more milk when I serve it to her."
"No," Ophelia said quickly, eyes bright. "Don’t change it. This is it. This is the one."
Her voice was sincere enough to make Glimora nod like a tiny judge. The little beast then pretended she hadn’t nodded and went back to sulking, tail writing angry letters in the air.
Valen cleared his throat. The sound thudded against the door frame. His face tried to stay blank and failed at the mouth. "Can I... have some too?" he asked, like a man who knew he should not ask and was asking anyway. "I also want to have some."
Ophelia shot him a look over Glimora’s head that said be brave, ask properly. Valen straightened a little, squared his shoulders like he was going to battle with a spoon.
Cyrus looked at him. Just looked, for a beat, like he was measuring the request against Kian’s rules, the kitchen rules, the Isabella rules, and the don’t encourage Glimora rules. Valen didn’t fidget. He stood easy, but his eyes kept flicking to Ophelia’s hands and back. He wasn’t here for sweets alone. He was here to make sure she was fine. Even his hunger was protective.
The corner of Cyrus’s mouth tugged. He was not blind to that kind of care. He also knew that taste shared in peace was its own kind of binding.
"Sure," Cyrus said at last, and warmth walked through the word. "You can come in." (Zyran would have started an argument over this🙂)
He lifted his chin toward the threshold—an invitation as clear as a hand on a shoulder—and the room breathed like it had been waiting to exhale. Glimora popped up again, ears pricked high as banners, as if to say: if he gets some, then surely— But Cyrus only gave her that steady look again, the one that was gentle and unmovable, and she subsided with a soft, outraged squeak, which in her language meant: Fine. I will remember this.
Valen stepped over the line. The firelight caught his face, took the hard edge off his features. He moved to Ophelia’s side but not too close, careful not to crowd her with his bigger frame. She leaned an inch toward him without thinking, the way people lean toward quiet safety, then pretended she hadn’t.
Cyrus ladled the smallest taste into the rinsed spoon, set it in Valen’s palm handle-first, and nodded once. Valen accepted it like it was a mission, then glanced at Ophelia, and only when she nodded did he lift it to his mouth.
The sweet hit.
Valen blinked, once, twice, like his tongue had just betrayed him. His shoulders dropped a notch he didn’t even know was raised, as if the tension had been hiding there for years waiting for coconut buttermilk to release it.
"It’s good," Valen said, steady, like he wasn’t fighting the urge to close his eyes and hum. His mouth stayed straight, but the sugar was already lighting up his chest. He looked at Cyrus, still serious, as if hiding happiness behind discipline. "She will like it."
But Ophelia, watching him closely, caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Oh, he was enjoying it. More than enjoying it. The sweetness was melting him inside out, but Valen was a man. And men—well, men didn’t squeal over desserts. He swallowed, his jaw flexing like he was bracing himself against smiling too wide. The more the sugar spread through his chest, the straighter his face became. If he looked any more serious, people would think he’d just been told grim war news instead of tasting the best thing in the palace.
Inside? He was happy. Actually happy. Outside? Stone wall.
It was ridiculous, and also kind of cute.
Cyrus simply breathed and let himself be happy.
Glimora sighed again, louder, because if everyone else was going to enjoy life in front of her, she might as well suffer on purpose so they felt bad later. Ophelia snorted and kissed the top of her fuzzy head. "Patience," she whispered. "We share with your mama."
Glimora grumbled but tucked in, ears warm against Ophelia’s wrist where the thin white lines were already fading. Ophelia flexed her fingers once, quietly testing the sting, and then left it. She had made her choice. Cyrus had respected it. Valen had heard it. The kitchen had witnessed it.
Cyrus wiped the rim of the pot, set the spoon down, and looked up at them all—the soldier at ease, the girl with her stubborn heart, the small beast trying to bully fate, and the cool bowl waiting for the person it was made for. The air felt simple. Good.
Valen cleared his throat again, softer this time. "Thank you," he said.
Cyrus nodded. "You’re welcome."