Rosa's kitchen smelled like rosemary and something earthier I couldn't name, the steam from my bowl curling up and catching the low evening light through the window over the sink. I lifted another spoonful of the stew — lamb, I think, falling apart tender — and let it sit on my tongue a moment before swallowing. The herb was there, subtle, woven through the broth in a way that made me want to keep eating just to find where it went next.

"More?" Rosa asked, already reaching for the pot.

"I couldn't," I said, but my spoon was still moving, scraping the side of the bowl.

She laughed, a sound that filled the little kitchen like she'd wound it around herself. "That's what you said twenty minutes ago. Look at you."

I looked at myself. The bowl was nearly empty. Mac's mother had fed me like I was the one who needed fattening up, and maybe I did — maybe this body needed fuel for everything it was doing, everything it wanted to do. Across from me, Mac scraped his own bowl clean, and Rosa's eyes flicked to him, watching the way he lifted the spoon, the way he went back for another bite.

There was a sparkle in her eye. Not the warm, easy one from earlier. Something sharper. Something that knew exactly what she was doing.

I didn't name it. I took another bite instead, letting the savory richness coat my tongue, and I let her have her quiet scheming. Some things were better left unspoken across a kitchen table.

"So," Rosa said, settling back in her chair, "I was thinking about the nursery."

I choked on my broth.

"The — Rosa, we don't even know if I'm — it's been like a day."

"Oh, I know." She waved a hand like the timeline was a minor detail. "But it's never too early to start planning. I saw the cutest little mobile in a shop window downtown. Little rockets. You'd like that, wouldn't you, sweetheart?"

"Rockets," I repeated.

"For the baby." She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're the aerospace one. It only makes sense."

Mac snorted into his bowl. I kicked him under the table and he just grinned at me, that easy, crooked grin that made my stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with the stew.

"I'm just saying," Rosa continued, "that when you're ready, I want to be ready. I've been waiting a long time for grandbabies." She looked at Mac, then back at me, and her smile softened into something almost fragile. "And I never thought — well. I never thought I'd get a daughter out of it, too."

The words hit me somewhere behind my ribs. I set my spoon down against the rim of the bowl, the ceramic clicking softly, and I didn't know what to say to that. I'd been Avery three weeks ago. I'd been a boy who followed a pretty blonde into a bathroom and woke up in a body that made men's heads turn on the street. And here I was, sitting in a warm kitchen in Lawrence, Massachusetts, being told I was someone's daughter.

"Okay," I managed. "Rockets sound good."

Rosa beamed. "That's my girl."

Mac's knee pressed against mine under the table. Just a brush, steady and warm, and I felt it all the way through my thigh, through my hip, down into that low place that had been humming since we walked through the door. I pressed back, barely, and he didn't move away.

The hunger crept up so slowly I almost didn't notice it.

It started as a warmth, a loosening in my belly that I could have mistaken for the stew settling. Then it spread lower, a pulse that synced with the press of Mac's knee, with the way his thumb was tracing the edge of his spoon. I shifted in my chair and felt the heat between my thighs, the slickness that had been building all evening without me paying attention.

Rosa was talking about paint colors — something about sage green and cream — and I nodded along, but my mind was elsewhere. It was in the way Mac's jaw moved when he chewed, the flex of muscle under his stubble. It was in the memory of his hands on my hips, his mouth on my throat, the sound he made when I sank down onto him.

I wanted him. Right now. In this house, with his mother twenty feet away, I wanted him inside me so badly I could feel it like a physical ache.

"Allie? You okay, honey?"

I blinked. Rosa was looking at me, head tilted, concern flickering in her eyes.

"Fine," I said, and my voice came out breathier than I meant it to. "Just — the stew. It's really good."

Mac's knee pressed harder. I think he knew. I think he could feel the heat coming off me like a furnace.

"I'll get you some more," Rosa said, already standing.

"No — really, I'm full." I pushed my chair back, the legs scraping against the linoleum. "Actually, I think I need to — I'm just going to —"

I didn't finish the sentence. I reached down and grabbed Mac's wrist, and I pulled.

He came easily, surprised but willing, his chair scraping back as he stood. Rosa's eyebrows went up, but she didn't say anything — she just watched us, that knowing sparkle back in her eye, as I towed him out of the kitchen and down the hall.

"Allie —"

"Shh."

The guest room door was already open. I shoved him inside and he stumbled, caught himself on the edge of the bed, and before he could ask what was happening I pushed him onto the mattress. He landed on his back, looking up at me with wide eyes and a half-formed grin.

"What's gotten into —"

I dropped to my knees and yanked his belt open.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, okay."

His cock was already hard, straining against his jeans, and I didn't waste time with finesse. I pulled him out and took him in my mouth, all the way, until my nose hit the coarse hair at the base and his hips bucked off the mattress.

"Fuck — Allie —"

I sucked him slow, then fast, then slow again, learning the rhythm he liked from the way his fingers curled into the sheets. He tasted like salt and skin, like the stew he'd eaten, like something that was mine. I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper, my throat opening for him, and he groaned my name like a prayer.

"That's it," he breathed, one hand finding my hair, gripping it loose. "Just like that. Fuck, you're so good at that."

I looked up at him, my mouth full of his cock, and I felt the hunger roar through me like a wave I couldn't hold back. I didn't want to hold it back. I wanted him inside me, wanted to feel him stretch me, fill me, fuck me until I couldn't think.

I pulled off him with a wet sound, spit slicking my lips. "On your back," I said, and my voice was rough, unrecognizable. "I want to ride you.”

He didn't argue. He stripped off his shirt, the flannel hitting the floor, and lay back against the pillows, his chest heaving, his cock standing hard and wet from my mouth. I climbed onto the bed, straddled his hips, and reached down to guide him to my entrance.

I was so wet I could feel it dripping down my thigh.

"Come here," he said, and his hands found my hips, steadying me. "Take what you need."

I sank down onto him and we both gasped.

He filled me so perfectly, that stretch I could never get used to, that fullness that made my eyes roll back. I sat there a moment, just feeling him inside me, feeling the pulse of him against my walls, and then I started to move.

Slow at first. Rocking, grinding, finding the angle that made sparks go off behind my eyes. His hands tightened on my hips and he watched me, watched my breasts bounce with each movement, watched the way I bit my lip to keep from moaning too loud.

But I couldn't keep quiet. Not with him this deep.

"Mac," I breathed, riding him faster. "Mac, fuck —"

"That's it," he groaned. "Ride me, baby. Use me."

I did. I rode him hard, my nails digging into his chest as I bounced on his cock, the headboard knocking against the wall in a rhythm that matched my heart. The sound was obscene — wet and slapping, the creak of the bed, the rough pant of our breathing — and I didn't care who heard it. I didn't care about anything except the way he felt inside me, the way he filled me, the way I was going to come apart on his cock.

"You feel so good," he said, his voice strained. "So tight. So fucking wet for me."

"I want you to cum inside me," I said, and the words came out like a confession. "I want to feel it. I want to feel you fill me up."

His eyes went dark. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I leaned forward, my breasts brushing his chest, my mouth against his ear. "I want your baby in me. I want — I want —"

He flipped us.

Suddenly I was on my back, my legs wrapped around his waist, and he was pounding into me with a force that knocked the breath out of me. His hips slapped against mine, his cock driving deep, and I cried out — I couldn't help it — a high, keening sound that I heard echo off the walls.

"That's right," he growled. "Let them hear you. Let everyone know who you belong to."

"Yours," I gasped. "I'm yours. Fuck, Mac, I'm yours —"

He kissed me, swallowing my moans, and I tasted myself on his lips. His hand found my clit, rubbing in tight circles, and I shattered — my cunt clenching around him, my body arching off the bed, his name torn from my throat as I came.

He followed me over the edge, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside me as he spilled deep. I felt it — the hot rush of him filling me, the twitch of his cock as he emptied himself into my body — and I held him there, my legs locked around his waist, not letting him pull out.

We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard, tangled together. The headboard had stopped knocking. The room was quiet except for our ragged breath.

And then I heard it.

Footsteps. Soft, retreating, moving away from the door.

I didn't know how long Rosa had been standing there. I didn't know what she'd heard, what she'd seen through the crack in the door. But her footsteps faded down the hall, and I heard the kitchen sink turn on, and I knew she knew.

Mac looked at me, his forehead against mine, and he smiled — that easy, crooked smile that made my heart ache.

"Guess there's no hiding it now," he said.

I laughed, breathless and shaky. "Guess not."

He kissed me again, soft this time, and I felt the hunger settle — not gone, never gone, but quiet. Full. Satisfied, for now.

Somewhere down the hall, Rosa was humming.

Morning light came through the curtains in a pale yellow stripe that fell across the pillow, warm against my cheek. Mac's arm was heavy around my waist, his breath a slow, steady rhythm against the back of my neck, and for a long moment I just lay there, feeling the solid warmth of him, the way his chest rose and fell against my spine.

The hunger stirred low in my belly, that familiar pulse that never really went away. I could feel him hard against my thigh, half-awake himself, and my body wanted to roll over, to straddle him, to ride him slow and lazy until we both forgot where we were.

I didn't.

I slipped out from under his arm instead, careful, quiet, my feet finding the cold floor. He grunted in his sleep, rolled onto his stomach, and the snoring picked back up — a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through the mattress.

I pulled on one of his t-shirts from the floor, the flannel one he'd been wearing last night, and it hung off my shoulder, the hem barely reaching my thighs. The fabric smelled like him. I let myself breathe it in for a second, then padded to the door.

The hallway was quiet, the house still holding the warmth of yesterday evening. And then I heard it — the soft clink of a mug against ceramic, the hiss of the kettle, a voice humming something low and melodic that I almost recognized.

I followed the sound to the kitchen.

Rosa stood at the counter, back to me, pouring steaming water into a teapot. She wore a floral housecoat over a simple blouse, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, and she swayed slightly as she hummed, utterly at ease in her own kitchen.

"Morning, sweetheart," she said without turning around. "Tea?"

I blinked. "How did you —"

"I heard you padding down the hall. You walk like a cat." She turned, a warm smile on her face, and gestured to the chair I'd sat in last night. "Sit. I'll pour."

I sat. The kitchen was different in the morning — brighter, the low evening light replaced by a clean white glow that made everything look fresh. The stew pot from last night was washed and drying on the rack. A plate of pastries sat on the counter, still warm by the look of them, and my stomach growled in a way that was entirely separate from the hunger between my thighs.

Rosa set a mug in front of me, the tea dark and fragrant, and settled into the chair across from mine. She didn't say anything for a moment, just watched me over the rim of her own mug, and that knowing sparkle was back in her eye.

"So," she said, and her voice was casual, almost too casual. "I heard the headboard knocking against the wall last night."

I choked on my tea.

"It's a good sound," she continued, completely unbothered. "Haven't heard that sound in this house in — oh, years. Not since Marcus's father was alive, God rest him." She took a sip of her tea. "You two were loud."

"Rosa —"

"I'm not complaining." She waved a hand. "I'm just saying. I've got a new granddaughter on the way, and I've got a son who's finally got a woman in his life who looks at him the way you do. You think I'm going to complain about a little noise?"

My face was on fire. I could feel it, the heat climbing up my neck, across my cheeks, settling somewhere behind my ears. I stared into my mug and willed the tea to swallow me whole.

"We — I mean, I —" I stammered, and my voice came out embarrassingly high. "I didn't mean for you to —"

"Sweetheart." Rosa reached across the table and patted my hand. "I'm a grown woman. I know what two young people in love sound like. And believe me, I've heard worse." She paused, a wicked glint in her eye. "Much worse."

"Oh God."

"What? You think I don't know what sex sounds like? I had a husband. I had three brothers. I raised a son." She laughed, warm and full. "You're not going to scandalize me, Allie. You're going to have to try a lot harder than that."

I buried my face in my hands. "I want to die.”

"You want to die? Honey, I want to throw a parade." She was grinning now, I could hear it in her voice. "Do you know how long I've been waiting for my boy to bring home someone who makes him happy? Someone who actually wants to be with him, not just —" she gestured vaguely, "— whatever it was he was doing before?"

I peeked through my fingers. "What was he doing before?"

"Lord, I don't even want to know." She shook her head. "But I know my son. And I know the way he looks at you. That's not a boy who's playing games. That's a man who's found his person."

The heat in my face started to fade, replaced by something warmer, something that settled in my chest. I lowered my hands and looked at her, really looked at her — the kindness in her eyes, the way she held her mug like it was an old friend, the gold cross that caught the morning light.

"I love him," I said, and the words came out steady, sure. "I know it's fast. I know we haven't been together long. But I love him."

"I know, sweetheart." She smiled, soft now. "I can see it. And he loves you too. That boy's been walking around with stars in his eyes since you walked in the door."

I took a sip of my tea, letting the warmth spread through me, and I realized I was smiling. It felt strange, smiling this early in the morning, but it also felt right.

"Okay," I said, setting the mug down. "I need to change the subject before I combust."

Rosa laughed. "Fine. What do you want to talk about?"

I looked at the kitchen around us — the pots hanging on the wall, the spice rack by the window, the cookbook propped open on the counter with a recipe marked in pencil. An idea formed, something that felt solid and good, something that had nothing to do with the virus or the pregnancy or any of the chaos of the last few weeks.

"Actually," I said, "I want to learn how to cook."

Rosa's eyebrows went up. "Cook?"

"Mac's favorite dishes. I want to —" I hesitated, then pushed through. "I want to be able to make him the things he loves. I want to learn his favorites, the ones his mom makes." I met her eyes. "I want to learn the dish from last night. The stew. The one that made him —" I felt the blush creeping back, but I pushed through it, "— that made him such an animal in bed."

Rosa's face split into a delighted grin. "Oh, I like you." She pushed back from the table, already moving toward the counter. "I like you a lot."

"Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes, sweetheart. Pull up a chair." She opened a cabinet and pulled out a worn, stained recipe card, the edges softened with age. "This is my grandmother's recipe. Passed down through three generations of Delgado women. And I'll tell you a secret —" she leaned in, conspiratorial, "— it's the reason Marcus's father proposed to me."

"The stew?"

"The stew." She winked. "Cook a man a meal like that, and he'll follow you anywhere."

She set the card on the counter between us, and I leaned in to look at it. The handwriting was faded, the ink smudged in places, but I could make out the ingredients — lamb, rosemary, garlic, something I couldn't quite decipher that I guessed was the earthy flavor I'd noticed last night.

"What's this?" I asked, pointing at the smudged word.

"Epazote," Rosa said. "It's an herb. My grandmother brought the seeds from Mexico. You can't find it in most grocery stores, but I grow it in the garden." She gestured toward the window. "It's the secret ingredient. That's what gives it that flavor."

"Epazote," I repeated, testing the word on my tongue.

"Say it with a little more heat," Rosa said, grinning. "Roll the R. Epa- zo -te."

"Epa- zo -te."

"There you go." She nodded approvingly. "Now, first thing you need to know about this stew — it's all about patience. You can't rush it. The meat needs time to get tender, the flavors need time to meld. You start it in the morning, you eat it at night."

"That's a long time."

"That's the point, mija. Good things take time." She looked at me, and there was something deeper in her eyes now, something that went beyond cooking. "You're going to be a mother, Allie. You're going to need to learn patience. Might as well start with stew."

The word mother hit me somewhere soft, somewhere I hadn't expected. I'd been so focused on the virus, on the transformation, on the hunger — I hadn't let myself think about what came after. A baby. A child. A life growing inside me, maybe already taking root.

"Okay," I said, my voice a little thick. "Teach me."

Rosa smiled, warm and real, and reached for an apron hanging by the stove. "Here," she said, holding it out. "Put this on. You don't want to ruin that pretty shirt."

I looked down at Mac's flannel, already oversized and rumpled, and laughed. "I think it's already ruined."

"Humor me anyway."

I took the apron and slipped it over my head, tying the strings behind my back. It was floral, pink roses on a cream background, and it smelled faintly of flour and something sweet. It felt strange, wearing it — like playing dress-up, like I was pretending to be someone I wasn't.

But Rosa was already pulling ingredients from the fridge, setting them on the counter with practiced ease, and I found myself falling into rhythm beside her.

"First," she said, "we chop.”

She handed me an onion and a knife, and I stared at them like they were alien artifacts. I'd never chopped an onion in my life. I'd eaten plenty of them, but I'd never actually had to do the work.

"Like this," Rosa said, picking up her own knife. "Cut off the top, peel back the skin, then —" she made quick work of it, the onion falling into neat, even pieces, "— dice."

I tried to copy her. My first cut was too thick, my second too thin, and Rosa laughed, gentle, and reached over to guide my hand.

"Slow," she said. "Let the knife do the work. You're not fighting it."

Her hand was warm over mine, steady, and I felt something settle in my chest. This was normal. This was what normal people did — stood in a kitchen with their boyfriend's mother, learning to cook, talking about nothing in particular. No virus. No transformation. No hunger gnawing at the edges of my mind.

Just onions and rosemary and the morning light.

"You're a quick learner," Rosa said, watching me finish the onion. "Marcus said you were smart. MIT, right?"

"Aerospace engineering," I said, and the words still felt strange coming out of my mouth, like they belonged to someone else. "I want to work on Mars missions eventually."

Rosa paused, knife hovering over a carrot. "Mars?"

"It's — it's a dream," I said, suddenly self-conscious. "I know it sounds crazy."

"It doesn't sound crazy." She resumed chopping. "It sounds like my son picked a woman with ambition. That's a good thing, Allie. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

I opened my mouth to say something — I wasn't sure what, something about how I was still the same person who'd dreamed those dreams, how the body had changed but the mind hadn't — but Rosa was already moving on, reaching for the rosemary, guiding me through the next step.

"Now, the rosemary. You want to strip the leaves off the stem, like this —"

And just like that, the moment passed, and I was learning, my hands busy, my mind quiet, the hunger a distant hum I could almost ignore.

Somewhere upstairs, Mac was still snoring.

The rosemary was stripped and waiting in a small pile, the onions diced into uneven but honest pieces, and Rosa had just shown me how to sear the lamb — the way the meat hissed against the hot oil, the brown crust forming along the edges. I was watching the pan, hypnotized by the sizzle, when the thought surfaced.

"Rosa," I said, and my voice came out a little too casual, a little too studied, the way it did when I was about to ask for something I wasn't sure I deserved.

"Mm?" She was at the counter, measuring something into a small bowl, her back half-turned to me.

"That stew. Last night." I paused, letting the lamb sizzle a moment longer. "It was — I mean, you said it's why Marcus's father proposed."

"That's right." She didn't turn around, but I could hear the smile in her voice. "That man ate one bowl and looked at me like I'd hung the moon. Proposed three weeks later."

"So it's —" I swallowed, my face warming. "It's not just the flavor. It's something about the food itself. Something that —"

She turned then, a wooden spoon in her hand, and her eyes were sharp, knowing. "Something that puts a fire in a man's belly?"

I felt the blush climb up my neck. "Something like that."

Rosa laughed, warm and full. "Mija, I've been cooking for men my whole life. I know exactly what you're asking." She set the spoon down and came to stand beside me at the stove, looking into the pan. "The stew has epazote, yes. But what really does the work —" she reached past me and picked up a small glass jar from the spice rack, "— is this."

She unscrewed the lid and held it out. I leaned in, expecting something pungent, something herbal. The smell that hit me was warm and sweet, almost floral, with a deep earthy undertone that made something low in my belly stir.

"What is it?"

"A blend," she said, her voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial. "My grandmother's recipe. She was a curandera back in Mexico — a healer. She knew things. Not magic, exactly, but —" she shrugged, a small, private smile on her lips, "— knowledge. About what certain herbs do to the body."

I stared at the jar. "You're telling me this is an aphrodisiac."

"I'm telling you it's a seasoning," Rosa said, and she was definitely grinning now. "A very effective seasoning. You put a pinch of this in a man's food, and he'll be thinking about you all night."

The lamb was starting to burn. I pulled the pan off the heat, my heart hammering in my chest. "Rosa —"

"What? You asked." She capped the jar and set it back on the rack, casual as anything. "I'm just answering."

I stared at the jar, then at her, then back at the jar. The hunger was humming in my blood, that familiar pulse that never quite went quiet, and I could feel the weight of the question pressing on my tongue.

"Are there others?" I asked.

Rosa's eyebrows went up. "Others?"

"Other recipes." I kept my voice low, even though Mac was still asleep upstairs and there was no one else in the house. "Other dishes that — that do what the stew did. That make him —" I couldn't finish the sentence. My face was on fire.

Rosa studied me for a long moment, her head tilted, that knowing sparkle back in her eye. Then she laughed, a delighted, full-bellied sound that filled the kitchen.

"Oh, I like you," she said. "I really, really like you." She wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the cabinet, pulling out a worn recipe box, the corners dented, the lid held shut with a rubber band. "Sit down, mija. I'm going to teach you something."

I sat. She set the box on the table between us and removed the rubber band, flipping through the cards with a practiced hand. They were yellowed, stained, the handwriting in a mix of English and Spanish, some of it so faded I could barely make it out.

"This one," she said, pulling out a card. "Carne en su jugo. It's a soup, but it's not like any soup you've had. It's got a kick to it." She set it aside. "And this one — chiles rellenos. My mother's recipe. The batter is the secret." She pulled out another. "And this one is the one that'll really get you somewhere."

She held it out, and I leaned in to read it. The title was in Spanish, the handwriting neat and precise, and I could make out a list of ingredients I didn't recognize.33

"What is it?" I asked.

"Pollo en mole poblano." She said the words with a reverence that made me sit up straighter. "It's a chicken dish. The sauce has over twenty ingredients — chiles, chocolate, spices, nuts. It takes all day to make." She looked at me, her eyes serious now. "And it's the one that got my husband to propose."

"The stew got him to propose," I said.

"The stew got him to notice me." She smiled. "The mole got him to put a ring on it. There's a difference, mija. The stew is a spark. The mole is a fire."

I looked at the card in my hands, at the faded ink, at the list of ingredients I couldn't pronounce. The hunger was still there, humming low and steady, and I could feel the shape of the question forming in my chest.

"I want to learn them all," I said. "The stew, the carne, the chiles, the mole. All of them."

Rosa tilted her head. "All of them? That's a lot of cooking, sweetheart."

"I know." I met her eyes, and I let her see the truth in mine. "But I don't want him to know every time. I don't want him to — to expect it. I want to surprise him. I want him to think it's just a good meal, and then —" I trailed off, the heat climbing up my cheeks again.

Rosa's smile softened into something almost tender. "You want to keep him on his toes."

"I want to keep him —" I paused, searching for the words. "I want him to never know what's coming. I want to be able to make him something that makes him go crazy, and I want him to think it's just because I'm a good cook. Not because there's anything in it."

She laughed, shaking her head. "You're a clever one, aren't you? MIT girl." She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Alright. I'll teach you. But you have to promise me something."

"Anything."

"You use it for good." Her eyes were serious now, warm but firm. "You use it to love my son, not to manipulate him. You understand?"

"I understand." I meant it. "I just want to — I want to be able to give him something. Something that's mine. Something that makes him look at me the way he did last night."

Rosa nodded slowly, then reached for the first card — the carne en su jugo. "Alright then. Let's start with this one. It's simpler than the mole, but it's got the same principle." She set the card between us. "The key is the salsa — you make it fresh, you add it at the end, and you don't tell him what's in it."

I leaned in, my mind already working, already cataloging the ingredients, the steps, the timing. This was something I could do. This was something I could master.

"And the mole?" I asked.

"The mole is for later." Rosa smiled. "You have to earn the mole."

She stood and moved to the fridge, pulling out a cut of beef, a bundle of cilantro, a bag of tomatillos. I watched her work, the easy confidence in her movements, the way she didn't measure, didn't hesitate. She'd been doing this her whole life, and I was just beginning.

"First," she said, "we toast the chiles."

She set a dry skillet on the stove and pulled out a handful of dried chiles — guajillo, ancho, a third kind I didn't recognize — and laid them in the pan. The heat brought out their scent, a rich, smoky aroma that made my mouth water.

"You don't burn them," she said, turning them with tongs. "You just — wake them up. You want them to release their oils, their flavor. That's the base of everything."

I watched, memorizing. The way she moved the chiles, the timing, the color they turned when they were ready. She transferred them to a bowl and covered them with hot water, then turned to the tomatillos, peeling off their papery husks.

"Now you," she said, handing me the knife. "Chop these. Rough is fine. They're going in the blender anyway."

I took the knife and started chopping, the tomatillos slick and cool under my fingers. The hunger was still there, humming in my blood, but it was quieter now, backgrounded by the focus of the task. This was something I could control. This was something I could learn.

Rosa watched me work, a small smile on her lips. "You're a natural," she said. "Marcus is a lucky man."

I didn't look up from the cutting board. "I'm the lucky one."

"Mija." Her voice was gentle, and I paused, looking up. "You're both lucky. That's how it's supposed to work."

She took the chopped tomatillos and added them to the blender, along with the softened chiles, a handful of cilantro, a clove of garlic. She hit the button and the machine whirred, the ingredients spinning into a smooth, vibrant green paste.

"The salsa," she said, turning off the blender. "This is what makes the soup. You put this in at the end, right before you serve it, and it wakes everything up." She dipped a spoon in and held it out to me. "Taste."

I leaned in and took a sip. The flavor hit me like a wave — bright and sharp, the heat of the chiles building slowly, the cilantro cutting through, the tomatillos giving it a tang that made my tongue tingle. It was alive. It was electric.

"Oh," I breathed. "Oh, wow."

Rosa grinned. "Good, right? Now imagine that in a warm soup, with tender beef and beans, on a cold night." She winked. "Imagine how a man feels after a bowl of that."

I could imagine it. I could imagine Mac's eyes going dark, his hands finding my hips, his voice dropping to that low register that made my knees weak. I could imagine the hunger — not the virus hunger, but the other one, the one that was mine — rising up to meet him.

"Teach me," I said, and my voice was steady. "Teach me all of it."

Rosa reached for the pot, the beef, the beans. "Then let's get to work."

The morning stretched out before us, the kitchen filling with the smells of toasting chiles, simmering beef, fresh cilantro. Mac was still snoring upstairs, oblivious, and I let myself fall into the rhythm of the work — the chopping, the stirring, the tasting, the learning. Rosa's voice guided me, patient and warm, and for the first time since the virus, I felt like I was building something. Something that was mine.

Not just a body. Not just a future. Something I could give.

By the time the soup was bubbling on the stove, the sun was high in the window, and I could hear the creak of the floorboards upstairs — Mac, finally stirring.

Rosa looked at me, that knowing sparkle in her eye. "He's up."

I looked at the pot, at the steam rising, at the bowl she'd already set out. The plan was forming in my mind, the shape of it solid and warm.

"Good," I said. "Let him sleep a little longer. I want this to be ready."

Rosa laughed, soft and delighted, and reached for the ladle. "You're going to be just fine, mija. Just fine."

The ladle hovered over the pot, and I watched Rosa fill the bowl with a practiced tilt of her wrist — the broth catching the light, the beef falling apart at the touch of the spoon. She set it on the counter beside a plate of the chiles rellenos we'd started earlier, the batter golden and crisp, and I felt something swell in my chest that I couldn't quite name.

"That looks —" I started, but I didn't get to finish.

"Good morning."

Mac's voice came from the doorway, rough with sleep, and I turned to find him leaning against the frame, his hair a disaster of curls, his eyes still half-lidded. He was wearing only his boxers and the t-shirt I'd been wearing last night — the one I'd left on the floor — and the sight of him in it, the fabric stretched across his shoulders, made my mouth go dry.

"Morning," I managed.

His eyes found mine, and a slow grin spread across his face. "You're up early."

"We're making breakfast," Rosa said, her voice bright, utterly unbothered by her son standing in his underwear in her kitchen. "Sit down, mijo. You're going to eat."

Mac shuffled to the table, dropping a kiss on the top of my head as he passed, and I felt the heat of it travel down my spine. He slid into the chair across from me, and Rosa set a bowl in front of him, steam curling up around his face.

"What is this?" he asked, peering at it.

"Carne en su jugo," Rosa said. "Allie made it."

His eyebrows went up. "You made this?"

"Rosa taught me." I shrugged, trying to look casual, like I hadn't spent the morning memorizing every step, every ingredient, every flick of her wrist. "It's not that hard."

He took a spoonful, and I watched his face — the way his eyes widened, the way he paused mid-chew, the way he looked at me like I'd just hung the moon.

"This is incredible," he said, his voice thick. "This is — you made this?"

"She's a natural," Rosa said, settling into the chair beside me. "Picked it up faster than I did, and I grew up in this kitchen."

Mac took another bite, then another, and I felt the warmth of his approval settle in my chest like something solid. This was what I wanted. This was what I'd been building toward all morning — the look on his face, the way he couldn't stop eating, the way his eyes kept finding mine across the table.

"So," Rosa said, breaking the comfortable silence, "I was telling Allie about your first girlfriend."

Mac choked on his soup.

"Mom."

"What? She should know." Rosa's eyes sparkled. "Her name was Elena. She was a sweet girl, very pretty, and she broke your heart in the eighth grade."

"She did not —" Mac started, but Rosa was already talking.

"He came home crying," Rosa continued, her voice warm with delight. "Sobbing, actually. He locked himself in his room for three days and listened to — what was it? That sad emo band."

"Mom, I swear to God —"

"He wrote her a poem," Rosa said, and I felt my face split into a grin. "A poem. He read it to me. It was about her eyes. They were — what did you say? 'Like pools of chocolate I wanted to swim in.'"

Mac buried his face in his hands, and I laughed — a real laugh, the kind that came from my belly and made my chest ache. "Pools of chocolate?"

"I was fourteen," he groaned, his voice muffled. "I didn't know what I was doing."

"You knew enough to steal my good pen to write it," Rosa said. "I found it in his backpack, this crumpled piece of notebook paper, all these big words he'd clearly looked up in a thesaurus."

"I'm going to die," Mac said. "I'm going to die right here at this table."

"Not yet," I said, grinning. "I want to hear the rest of the poem."

He looked up at me, his face red, and there was something in his eyes — a plea, a warning, a promise of retribution. "You're enjoying this too much."

"I'm enjoying every second of it."

Rosa laughed, reaching over to pat his hand. "Don't worry, mijo. I've got plenty more stories where that came from. Like the time he decided he was going to be a wrestler —"

"No," Mac said, pointing at her. "No. That's where I draw the line."

"He wore a singlet to school," Rosa continued, ignoring him completely. "Under his clothes. He was so proud of it. He told everyone he was going to be a professional wrestler, and he practiced his moves on the couch —"

"Mom."

"— and he broke my favorite lamp."

"It was an accident!"

"He was doing a 'flying elbow drop,'" Rosa said, and she was laughing so hard she had to set down her spoon. "On the couch. In his singlet. And he landed wrong and took out my grandmother's lamp."

Mac dropped his head to the table with a thud. "I hate you," he said, his voice muffled against the wood. "I hate you so much."

"You love me," Rosa said, patting his head. "Eat your soup."

He lifted his head, glaring at her, but there was no heat in it. He picked up his spoon and took another bite, and I watched the way his shoulders relaxed, the way the tension drained out of him. This was his home. This was his mother. And I was sitting at the table with them, watching him become the boy he'd been before he'd met me.

I wanted to remember this. I wanted to hold onto this — the morning light, the smell of the soup, the sound of Rosa's laughter, the way Mac's eyes crinkled when he smiled despite himself.

I wanted to be part of it.

After breakfast, Rosa cleared the plates and I helped, moving around her in the kitchen like I'd been doing it for years. Mac watched us from the table, his chin propped on his hand, and I could feel his eyes on me — on the curve of my hip, the way the apron cinched my waist, the way I moved.

"I should head back," he said finally, stretching. "I've got that project due —"

"Stay."

The word came out before I could stop it, and both of them looked at me. I felt my face heat, but I pushed through.

"Just — stay a little longer. Please." I looked at Rosa, then back at him. "I want to learn more of her recipes. I want to —" I swallowed. "I want to learn how to make the mole."

Mac's eyebrows went up. "The mole?"

"It's the one that got her husband to propose," I said. "I want to learn it."

He looked at Rosa, who shrugged, a small smile playing at her lips. "She's a quick learner," Rosa said. "And she's got a good reason."

"What reason is that?" Mac asked, his voice low.

I met his eyes. "I want to make you happy."

The words hung in the air between us, simple and true, and I watched something shift in his face — a softening, a warmth that made my chest ache.

"You already make me happy," he said, and his voice was rough. "You know that, right?"

"I know." I stepped closer, close enough to touch him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin. "But I want to do more. I want to —" I hesitated, then pushed through. "I want to be able to give you something. Something that's mine."

He reached out and took my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "You're already mine," he said. "That's enough."

"It's not enough for me." I said it quietly, but I meant it. "I want to be able to take care of you. I want to be able to feed you, and — and make you feel good, and —"

"Allie." He pulled me closer, his forehead pressing against mine. "I love you. You don't have to earn anything."

"I know." I closed my eyes, letting myself breathe him in. "But I want to anyway."

Rosa cleared her throat, and I opened my eyes to find her watching us, a knowing smile on her face. "I'll get the ingredients ready," she said. "For the mole. It's going to take a while."

She turned to the cabinet, and I felt Mac's hand squeeze mine.

"You really want to learn the mole?" he asked.

"I want to learn everything," I said. "Every recipe she knows. I want to —" I paused, searching for the words. "I want to be able to make you the things you grew up with. The things that made you who you are. I don't want to replace her —" I looked at Rosa, who had paused, her back half-turned to us, and I hoped she could hear the truth in my voice. "I would never want to replace her. She's your mother. She's the reason you're the man I love. I just — I want to be able to do this for you. I want to make you happy in a way that's mine."

Rosa turned, and there were tears in her eyes — not falling, but there, glistening. She blinked them away quickly, but not before I saw them.

"You're a good girl, Allie," she said, her voice thick. "You're a good girl, and I'm so glad my son found you."

Mac pulled me into his arms, his chin resting on the top of my head, and I felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my cheek. The hunger stirred low in my belly, that familiar pulse, but it was quiet — backgrounded by something warmer, something that felt like belonging.

"Okay," I said, pulling back, wiping at my eyes. "Let's make the mole."

Rosa laughed, reaching for the spice rack. "Alright, mija. But I'm warning you — this one's a labor of love. You're going to be here all day."

"I don't have anywhere else to be," I said, and I meant it.

Mac settled back into his chair, watching us with that easy grin, and I felt the shape of the day stretch out before us — the kitchen filling with the smells of chiles and chocolate, Rosa's voice guiding me through each step, Mac's eyes following me as I moved.

This was what I wanted. This was what I was building toward.

Not just a body. Not just a future. Something I could give.

Something that was mine.

Rosa pulled down the dried chiles from the cabinet — anchos, pasillas, mulatos — and laid them out on the counter like she was dealing cards. The smell hit me first, earthy and sweet, a little smoky, and I watched her hands move with a rhythm that came from decades of repetition.

"First," she said, "you toast them. Not too hot, not too long. You want them to wake up, not burn."

She set a comal over the flame and laid the chiles on it, one by one, pressing each with the flat of her palm. The skins blistered and darkened, and the air filled with that toasty, almost chocolatey scent that made my mouth water.

"Feel that," she said, gesturing for me to take her place. "When they start to smell like that — like something you want to eat — that's when you take them off."

I stepped up to the stove, the heat of the comal warming my face, and picked up the tongs. The first chile I touched was already too dark. Rosa reached over and gently corrected my grip.

"Lighter," she said. "They're not in a hurry. You have to be patient with them."

I tried again, turning the next one a little sooner, and she nodded. "Good. That's good."

Behind me, I heard Mac shift in his chair, and I knew he was watching — not the chiles, but me. The curve of my back as I leaned over the stove. The way the apron strings had come loose and hung against my hips. I felt his gaze like a hand on my skin, and the hunger stirred, a low pulse that I pushed down.

Not now. Not here.

"Now the seeds," Rosa said, pulling the toasted chiles into a bowl and covering them with hot water. "They soak for a while. In the meantime, we toast the spices."

She opened a tin and showed me the contents — cumin seeds, coriander, cloves, a stick of cinnamon, a few black peppercorns. "This is the heart of it," she said. "You can change everything else, but not this."

I watched her toss them into a dry pan, shaking it gently, and the smell that rose up was warm and complex, something that wrapped around me and made me want to lean closer.

"My husband used to sit right where Mac is sitting now," Rosa said, her voice soft. "Watching me cook. He never learned, but he loved to watch." She glanced at me, a small smile on her lips. "You're not like that. You want to learn."

"I do," I said. "I want to learn everything."

She nodded, and there was something in her eyes — a tenderness, a recognition. "He would have liked you," she said. "He would have loved you, actually."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just looked down at the pan, watching the cumin seeds darken, and let the warmth of her words settle in my chest.

The chiles soaked, and Rosa walked me through the next steps — blending them with the toasted spices, a little chicken broth, a piece of chocolate she broke off from a bar she kept in the pantry. I followed her instructions, my hands moving under her guidance, and the paste that came together was dark and glossy, smelling of smoke and earth and something almost sweet.

"Taste it," she said, holding out a spoon.

I dipped it in and brought it to my lips. The flavor hit me all at once — smoky, rich, a little bitter, with a warmth that spread across my tongue. It was like nothing I'd ever tasted, and I felt my eyes widen.

"Oh," I said. "Oh, that's —"

Rosa laughed. "Good, right?"

"It's incredible."

"Now you add the chocolate," she said, and I watched her crumble it into the pot, stirring until it melted into the sauce. "This is what makes it mole. This is what makes it ours."

She stepped back, letting me take the spoon, and I stirred the sauce as it simmered, the smell filling the kitchen, wrapping around me like something I could hold onto.

Mac got up from the table and came to stand behind me, his chest against my back, his chin resting on my shoulder. "You're really doing it," he said, his voice low, his breath warm against my ear.

"I'm really doing it," I said, and I felt his arms wrap around my waist, his hands settling on my hips, pulling me back against him.

Rosa was at the sink, her back turned, giving us a moment of privacy that I hadn't asked for but was grateful for.

"I love you," he murmured, his lips against my hair. "I love watching you do this. I love that you're here."

"I love you too," I said, and I meant it, the words rising up out of me like something I couldn't hold back.

He squeezed me once, then let go, stepping back to his chair. "I'm going to let you finish," he said. "But I'm going to be tasting this all day."

"That's the point," I said, grinning.

The mole simmered, and Rosa walked me through the final steps — adjusting the seasoning, thinning it with broth, letting it come together over low heat. She showed me how to tell when it was ready, the way the oil separated and pooled on the surface, the way the sauce clung to the spoon.

"This is it," she said. "This is the moment. When it looks like this, it's done."

I looked at the pot, at the dark, glossy sauce, and I felt a swell of pride that I couldn't quite name. I had made this. With her help, but I had made it.

Rosa ladled some into a bowl and set it in front of Mac. "Taste it," she said. "Tell her what you think."

He dipped a piece of bread in the sauce and brought it to his mouth, and I watched his face — the way his eyes closed, the way he chewed slowly, the way a small smile spread across his lips.

"Allie," he said, opening his eyes, "this is the best mole I've ever had."

"Really?"

"Really." He looked at Rosa. "Sorry, Mom. She's got you beat."

Rosa laughed, waving a hand. "Good. That means I taught her right."

I felt the warmth of his words spread through me, and I leaned against the counter, watching him finish the bowl, the hunger in my belly quiet for now, replaced by something fuller, something that felt like home.

The mole simmered on the back burner, dark and glossy, and Rosa was already pulling down another recipe box from the top shelf — this one older, the wood warped, the corners held together with tape. She set it on the counter with a reverence that made me lean in closer.

"These are the ones I don't make often," she said, lifting the lid. "They take time. They take patience. But they're worth it."

She pulled out a card, the ink faded to a pale blue, and held it up. "Pozole. My mother made this for every celebration. Birthdays, weddings, the day my father came home from the hospital after his surgery." She smiled, soft and distant. "It's a soup, but it's a ritual. You have to treat it like one."

I watched her hands as she set out the ingredients — hominy, pork shoulder, dried chiles, garlic — and I let myself fall into the rhythm of her teaching. The way she moved was a language I was learning, word by word, step by step. She showed me how to rinse the hominy, how to trim the pork, how to toast the chiles until they darkened just so.

"You're going to take these home," she said, not looking up from the cutting board. "I'm going to package up the mole, the carne en su jugo, the pozole — enough for a week of dinners. You'll have your own kitchen soon enough, and you'll want to practice."

I paused, my knife hovering over an onion. "Rosa, I — that's so much. I don't want to take all your food."

She laughed, that warm, full sound that filled the kitchen. "Mija, I've been cooking for one since Marcus left for school. It's a joy to cook for someone who actually eats. And you're family now. Family shares."

The word family landed in my chest like a stone dropped into still water. I didn't say anything. I just nodded and went back to chopping, letting the tears that threatened to rise stay where they were.

The afternoon stretched on, golden and slow. We made the pozole, then she taught me how to make her mother's salsa verde — tomatillos, serranos, cilantro, a squeeze of lime. We tasted it together, both of us reaching for the spoon at the same time, and she laughed when my eyes watered from the heat.

"That's the good stuff," she said, fanning her mouth. "That'll put hair on your chest."

I snorted. "I don't think I need more of that."

She gave me a look, wicked and warm. "No, I don't suppose you do."

The sun started to dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor. Rosa had me package the mole in a glass jar, the pozole in a plastic container, the salsa in a smaller one, each labeled with a piece of tape and a marker.

"For the freezer," she said. "Just thaw and heat. Don't overcook the mole, it'll separate."

I nodded, memorizing. The kitchen smelled like a lifetime of meals, and I wanted to bottle it, to carry it with me, to learn every single thing she knew.

Mac had drifted off on the couch at some point, the football game playing low on the TV. I could hear his soft snores from the kitchen, a familiar rumble that made Rosa smile.

"He works too hard," she said, nodding toward the living room. "He's always been like that. Even as a kid — he'd push himself until he dropped." She looked at me, her eyes soft. "You take care of him, Allie. You make sure he eats. You make sure he sleeps."

"I will," I said, and I meant it with everything I had.

"Good." She reached out and squeezed my hand. "Because he's never had anyone who looked at him the way you do. I've been waiting a long time for someone to love my boy like that."

The words hit me somewhere deep, somewhere I hadn't known was tender. I blinked, and Rosa let go of my hand, turning back to the counter.

"Now," she said, "let's get the stew going for dinner. The one you made last night. I want to see if you can do it on your own."

I stood a little taller. "I can do it."

"I know you can, mija. That's why I'm asking."

The stew came together under my hands this time — the lamb seared until it formed a brown crust, the onions softened in the same oil, the garlic and epazote added at the right moment. Rosa watched, correcting me only once, when I added the broth too fast.

"Slow," she said. "Let it warm up first. You want it to bloom."

I slowed, and the kitchen filled with that familiar scent — rosemary and something earthier, the smell of the night that had changed everything. I let it wash over me, and I felt the hunger stir low in my belly, that familiar pulse that never fully went quiet.

It wasn't the virus. It was anticipation.

By the time the stew was bubbling on the stove, the evening light had turned amber, spilling across the kitchen floor like honey. Rosa set the table — three bowls, three spoons, a basket of warm tortillas — and I heard the creak of the couch as Mac stirred.

"Something smells good," he said, his voice rough with sleep, and I turned to find him padding into the kitchen, his hair a disaster, his t-shirt rumpled.

He looked at the table, at the bowls, at me standing by the stove with the ladle in my hand, and his face split into that slow, warm grin that made my knees weak.

"You made the stew," he said.

"I made the stew," I said, and I felt the pride swell in my chest, warm and bright.

Rosa gestured for him to sit. "She did it all on her own. I just watched."

He sat, and I ladled the stew into his bowl, the broth catching the light, the lamb falling apart at the touch of the spoon. I set the bowl in front of him, and I watched him lift the spoon, watched him bring it to his lips, watched his eyes close as he tasted it.

The moment stretched, suspended.

He opened his eyes, and they found mine across the table. "Allie," he said, his voice low, "this is perfect."

But I knew what the stew did.

I knew what epazote and that secret blend of herbs did to a man's blood, to his hunger, to the heat that coiled in his belly. I had felt it last night — the way his hands had found me before I'd even finished my bowl, the way his eyes had gone dark, the way he'd pulled me into the guest room without a word.

And I knew, as I watched him take another bite, that we were going to have that kind of evening again.

Rosa caught my eye across the table, and she smiled — a knowing, private smile, the smile of a woman who had cooked for a man her whole life and knew exactly what that did to a marriage.

"Eat, mija," she said. "You're going to need your strength."

I felt the heat climb up my neck, but I didn't look away. I took my seat, lifted my spoon, and let the stew warm me from the inside out.

Mac ate his second bowl like he hadn't been fed in a week, and Rosa watched him with a satisfaction that bordered on smug. She caught my eye again, and she winked.

I ducked my head, hiding my smile in my bowl.

By the time dinner was done, the sun had set, and the kitchen was lit by the warm glow of the pendant light over the table. Rosa cleared the dishes, and I helped, moving around her in the easy rhythm we'd built over the day. Mac stayed at the table, his chin propped on his hand, watching us with a contented smile.

"I'm going to go pack up the rest of the food," Rosa said, wiping her hands on her apron. "You two —" she looked at us, her eyes warm, "— take your time."

She disappeared into the pantry, and I turned to Mac, who was still watching me, his eyes dark and knowing.

"You did good today," he said, his voice low. "Really good."

"Rosa taught me," I said, shrugging. "I just followed her lead."

"That's not nothing." He stood, crossing the kitchen until he was close enough to touch. "You learned her secrets. That's —" he shook his head, a small smile on his lips, "— that's everything."

I looked up at him, at the warmth in his eyes, at the way the light caught the stubble on his jaw, and I felt the hunger rise — not the virus hunger, not the low pulse that never went away, but something else. Something that was mine.

"I want to take you home," I said, and the words came out before I could stop them. "I want to —" I paused, my face heating. "I want to use what I learned."

His eyes went dark, a flicker of heat that made my breath catch. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin. "I want to cook for you. I want to —" I swallowed, my voice dropping. "I want to watch you eat what I make, and then I want to —"

"Allie." His voice was rough, a warning and a promise. "My mother is in the next room."

"I know." I didn't move. "I just wanted you to know what's coming."

He stared at me for a long moment, his jaw tight, and then he let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "You're going to kill me."

"Maybe," I said, and I let him see the truth in my eyes. "But what a way to go."

Rosa emerged from the pantry, a cardboard box in her arms, and I stepped back from Mac, the heat between us still crackling. She set the box on the counter, and I saw the jars and containers inside — the mole, the pozole, the salsa, a bag of dried chiles, a bundle of epazote wrapped in damp paper towels.

"For your kitchen," she said. "You'll need to practice."

I looked at the box, at the food she'd packed for us, at the care she'd put into every single thing, and I felt something swell in my chest that I couldn't name.

"Rosa," I said, and my voice came out thick. "I don't know how to thank you."

"You don't have to," she said, pulling me into a hug before I could react. Her arms were warm and solid, and she smelled like cumin and something floral, and I let myself sink into it, let myself be held. "You're family now, mija. That's all I need."

She pulled back, her eyes glistening, and she reached up to cup my face in her hands. "You take care of my boy, you hear me? And you take care of yourself. And you come back here whenever you want. This is your home too, now."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Mac came up behind me, his hand settling on my shoulder, warm and steady. "We'll be back soon, Mom. I promise."

"You better." She swatted his arm, then stepped back, wiping at her eyes. "Now go. It's a long drive back to Cambridge, and you two need your rest."

The look she gave me said she knew exactly what kind of rest we'd be getting.

We loaded the box into Mac's car, the jars clinking softly in the back seat, and I turned to look at Rosa one more time. She stood on the porch, the warm light spilling out behind her, her hand raised in a wave.

I waved back, and I felt something settle in my chest — something that felt like belonging.

The drive back to Cambridge was quiet, the highway dark around us, the headlights cutting a path through the night. Mac's hand found mine on the center console, his thumb tracing circles on my palm, and I let the warmth of it ground me.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low.

"Yeah," I said, and I meant it. "I'm more than okay."

He squeezed my hand, and I felt the hunger stir low in my belly — that familiar pulse, that anticipation I'd been carrying since I watched him eat the stew.

Tonight, I was going to cook for him.

Tonight, I was going to use everything Rosa taught me.

And tonight, I was going to watch him come apart.

The city lights rose up ahead, and I let go of his hand to reach for the box in the back seat, the jars still warm from the kitchen, the promise of the evening ahead settling over me like a second skin.

I couldn't wait to get home.

Mac pulled the car into the parking lot of our building and killed the engine. The silence that followed was thick, charged, the kind that made my skin prickle with anticipation. He didn't move to get out. He just sat there, his hands still on the wheel, watching me from the corner of his eye.

"You're going to make me wait, aren't you?"

I smiled, slow and deliberate. "I told you. I have things to put away."

He groaned, dropping his head back against the headrest. "Allie."

"Mac." I matched his tone, sweet and teasing, and reached for the door handle. "Patience."

I got out of the car, the cool night air hitting my skin, and I could feel his eyes on me as I walked around to the trunk. The box of food Rosa had packed sat there, the jars clinking softly as I lifted it, and I let my hips sway just a little more than necessary as I headed for the front door.

I heard him get out of the car behind me. I heard his footsteps on the pavement, closer than I expected, and I felt the heat of him at my back as I fumbled with the key.

"Let me help," he said, his voice low, his hand covering mine on the key.

"I've got it."

"I know you do." His breath was warm against my ear. "But I want to help."

The door swung open and I stepped inside, the box heavy in my arms, and I made a beeline for the kitchen. I set the box on the counter, the jars clinking, and I took my time — too much time — rearranging them, the mole going in the cabinet, the pozole in the freezer, the salsa in the fridge.

Behind me, I heard Mac come in, heard the door close, heard the lock turn.

"Allie." His voice was rough, edged with something that made my stomach flip. "You're killing me."

"I'm not killing you," I said, not turning around. "I'm just —" I opened the freezer, slid the pozole in next to a bag of frozen peas, "— being practical."

"Practical."

"Mm." I closed the freezer, wiped my hands on my jeans, and finally turned to face him. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed, his eyes dark and hungry, and I felt the heat of his gaze like a physical thing, crawling across my skin.

"All done," I said, and my voice came out breathier than I meant it to.

He crossed the kitchen in three steps.

His hands found my waist, his fingers digging into my hips, and he lifted me onto the counter without a word, the edge of it pressing into the backs of my thighs. I gasped, my hands flying to his shoulders, and he was between my legs before I could catch my breath, his mouth finding mine, hard and demanding.

I kissed him back, my fingers tangling in his hair, and I felt the hunger rise — not the virus hunger, but the other one, the one that was mine, the one that had been building all day as I watched him eat my cooking, watched his throat move as he swallowed, watched his eyes go dark with want.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he said against my mouth, his hands sliding up my thighs. "Every time you leaned over that stove. Every time you licked the spoon."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." His fingers found the hem of my shirt, tugging it up. "I wanted to bend you over that counter and fuck you right there in my mother's kitchen."

The words sent a jolt through me, heat pooling low in my belly. "You would have given her a show."

"I don't care." He pulled the shirt over my head, tossing it aside, and his mouth found my throat, my collarbone, the swell of my breast. "I would have watched your tits bounce while I fucked you from behind. I would have made you scream my name."

I moaned, my head falling back, my fingers gripping the edge of the counter. "Mac."

"But you made me wait." His hands found my breasts, cupping them, his thumbs circling my nipples until they were hard and aching. "You made me wait all day."

"I wanted to —" I gasped as he pinched, "— I wanted to make sure you were hungry."

"I'm starving."

He lifted me off the counter, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, and he carried me out of the kitchen, down the hall, into the bedroom. He didn't bother with the lights. The moon was high, spilling silver through the window, and I could see the shape of him, the broad shoulders, the dark hair, the gleam of his eyes as he looked at me.

He dropped me on the bed.

I bounced, laughing, and he was on me before I could catch my breath, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his mouth finding mine again, harder this time, more urgent. I felt his hands at my jeans, fumbling with the button, and I arched my hips to help him, the fabric sliding down my thighs, my underwear following a second later.

"Fuck," he breathed, his fingers finding me, sliding through the wet heat. "You're so fucking wet."

"I've been wet all day," I said, my voice ragged. "Watching you eat. Watching your hands. Watching your mouth."

He pushed two fingers inside me, and I cried out, my back arching off the bed. He curled them, finding that spot that made my vision blur, and he watched my face as he worked me, slow and deliberate.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, his voice low. "When you were standing in that kitchen, learning my mother's recipes — is this what you were thinking about?"

"Yes." The word came out broken. "Fuck, yes."

He pulled his fingers out, and I whimpered at the loss, but he was already moving, settling between my thighs, his cock hard and heavy against my stomach. He didn't tease. He didn't wait. He pushed inside me in one slow, thick stroke, and I felt myself stretch around him, that familiar fullness that made my eyes roll back.

"Oh — fuck —"

"That's it," he growled, his hips grinding against mine. "Take all of it."

He was rough. There was no other word for it. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, his thrusts deep and punishing, the headboard slamming against the wall with a rhythm that matched my pounding heart. I loved it. I loved every second of it — the way he took what he wanted, the way he made me take it too, the way his breath came in harsh pants against my throat.

"You're mine," he said, his voice wrecked. "This pussy is mine. You understand?"

"Yours," I gasped. "All yours. Fuck, Mac —"

He flipped me onto my stomach.

I barely had time to brace myself before he was inside me again, deeper this time, his chest against my back, his teeth grazing my shoulder. He fucked me hard, his hips slapping against mine, and I buried my face in the pillow to muffle the sounds I couldn't hold back.

"No," he said, pulling my hair, tilting my head back. "I want to hear you. I want everyone to hear you."

"Mac —"

"Say my name."

"Mac." I sobbed it, my fingers curling into the sheets. "Mac, please —"

"Please what?"

"Please don't stop."

He didn't stop. He drove into me again and again, his rhythm relentless, and I felt the pressure building, coiling low in my belly, threatening to break. His hand found my clit, rubbing in tight circles, and I shattered — my cunt clenching around him, my body convulsing, his name torn from my throat in a scream I couldn't contain.

He didn't slow down.

He fucked me through it, his thrusts turning rougher, more desperate, and I felt him twitch inside me, felt the heat of him spilling deep, and I held him there, my legs locked around his waist, not letting him go.

"Fuck," he breathed, collapsing on top of me, his forehead pressed to the back of my neck. "Fuck, Allie."

I laughed, breathless and shaky, my body still trembling. "That was —"

"Not done."

He pulled out, and I felt the emptiness, the ache, and before I could ask what he meant, he was rolling me onto my back, settling between my thighs again. His cock was still hard, slick with both of us, and he pushed inside me with a groan.

"I told you," he said, his eyes dark, his voice rough. "All night."

He kept his promise.

He took me slow, then fast, then slow again. He made me come on his cock, then on his fingers, then on his mouth, his tongue lapping at me until I was sobbing with it. He flipped me onto my side, then onto my stomach, then back onto my back, and every time I thought I couldn't take anymore, he found a new angle, a new way to make me fall apart.

At some point, the moon shifted, the silver light turning to a pale gray that meant the hours had passed. I was sore, raw, trembling, and I still wanted more.

"Mac," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "Mac, I —"

"I know." He kissed me, soft and deep, his hand cradling my face. "I know, baby."

He pushed inside me one more time, slow and gentle, and I felt the tears prick at my eyes — not from pain, not from sadness, but from the sheer overwhelming fullness of it. Of him. Of this. Of everything we were building together.

"I love you," I said, the words falling out of me like a confession.

He stilled, his eyes finding mine in the gray light. "I love you too."

He moved inside me, slow and deep, and I felt the pleasure build again, softer this time, a warm tide that carried me up and over. I came with his name on my lips, my body clenching around him, and he followed me, spilling inside me with a groan that sounded like relief.

We lay there, tangled together, our breathing slowly evening out. His hand traced lazy circles on my back, and I felt the hunger settle — not gone, never gone, but quiet. Full. Satisfied.

"You really did it," he said finally, his voice sleepy. "You learned all her recipes."

"Not all of them," I murmured. "But I'm working on it."

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through my chest. "You're going to spoil me."

"That's the plan."

He kissed my forehead, and I closed my eyes, letting the warmth of him surround me. The city was quiet outside, the first hints of dawn creeping through the curtains, and I felt something settle in my chest — something that felt like a promise.

This was mine. This man, this life, this body I was still learning to inhabit. I was going to take care of it. I was going to take care of him.

And I was going to feed him the mole that made his father propose, the stew that made his eyes go dark, the carne that made him groan like he was starving.

I fell asleep with his arms around me, the taste of his skin on my lips, and the hunger quiet at last.

I woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of pans clattering. For a moment I was disoriented, the unfamiliar ceiling above me, the sheets tangled around my legs. Then it all came back — Rosa's kitchen, the jars of mole and pozole, the long drive home, Mac carrying me to bed like I weighed nothing.

I stretched, my body aching in all the best ways, and I heard him humming in the kitchen. The sound was low and off-key, some song I didn't recognize, and I smiled before I was even fully awake.

I found him at the stove, shirtless, his back to me, flipping eggs in a pan. The morning light caught the muscles in his shoulders, the way they moved under his skin, and I leaned against the doorframe and just watched him for a moment.

"You know," I said, and he turned, his grin widening when he saw me, "I could get used to this."

"Yeah?" He gestured with the spatula. "Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

He slid the eggs onto a plate and set it on the counter, then crossed to me, his hands finding my waist, pulling me into him. He kissed me, slow and easy, and I melted into him, my fingers curling into his chest hair.

"Eat," he said against my mouth. "Then I'm taking you back to bed."

I laughed. "You already wore me out."

"I don't believe you."

He was right. I ate the eggs, and the toast he'd made, and the coffee he'd poured, and then he was scooping me up again, carrying me back to the bedroom, and I squealed, my arms around his neck, my laughter filling the room. He tossed me onto the bed and followed me down, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his mouth finding mine.

The hunger rose — not the virus hunger, but the one that was mine, the one that belonged to him. I wanted him. I wanted him so badly I could taste it, and he wanted me too, his hands everywhere, his breath ragged, his cock hard against my thigh.

"I love you," he said, his voice rough, his forehead pressed to mine. "I love you so much."

"I love you too."

He pushed inside me, slow and deep, and I gasped, my back arching, my nails digging into his shoulders. He moved inside me with a rhythm that was all his — unhurried, deliberate, each thrust a promise. I wrapped my legs around his waist and held him there, not letting him go, and he groaned, his mouth finding my throat.

"You're mine," he said, his voice wrecked. "You know that, right?"

"Yours," I breathed. "All yours."

He drove deeper, and I felt the pleasure building, coiling low in my belly, and I let it come, let it wash over me, my cunt clenching around him, his name on my lips. He followed me, spilling inside me with a groan that sounded like relief, and we lay there, tangled together, our breathing slowly evening out.

"I could do this forever," he said finally, his voice sleepy. "Just you and me. Every night."

"Every night," I agreed, my fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. "And every morning."

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "You're going to be the death of me."

"That's the plan."

I hummed against his chest, my fingers still tracing those lazy circles, but something in me wasn't done. The hunger had quieted, sure — but there was a different kind of want stirring now, one that had nothing to do with the virus and everything to do with the man whose heartbeat I could feel under my ear.

"You know," I said, my voice muffled against his skin, "I don't think I actually believe you."

"Believe what?"

"That you're going to be the death of you." I pushed myself up on one elbow, looking down at him. The gray light caught the planes of his face, the stubble on his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell. "I think you're just getting started."

His eyes widened, then darkened. "Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe." I let my fingers trail down his stomach, slow and deliberate, watching his muscles jump under my touch. "I've been thinking about something all night. All the ways I want you to take me. All the things I want to do to you."

"Yeah?" His voice had gone rough again. "Like what?"

"Like this." I swung my leg over his hips, straddling him, feeling his cock harden against my thigh. I reached down, wrapped my fingers around him, and guided him to my entrance. "I want to ride you until you can't think straight."

I sank down onto him slowly, inch by inch, and we both groaned. He filled me so completely, so perfectly, and I let myself take a moment to just feel it — the stretch, the heat, the way my body opened for him like it was made for exactly this.

"Fuck, Allie." His hands found my hips, gripping tight. "You feel incredible."

"Yeah?" I started to move, a slow roll of my hips that made his eyes roll back. "Tell me how good I feel."

"So good." His voice was wrecked. "So fucking tight and wet and — shit — just like that."

I rode him slow at first, savoring every inch of him inside me, watching his face contort with pleasure. His hands moved up my body, cupping my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples until I was gasping. I leaned forward, bracing my hands on his chest, and picked up the pace.

"Is this what you wanted?" I asked, my voice breathless. "When you were in that kitchen, watching me cook — did you imagine me like this?"

"Every fucking night," he groaned, his hips rising to meet mine. "I imagined you naked, riding me, your tits bouncing in my face —"

"And what else?"

"I imagined you on your knees." His hands slid down to my ass, squeezing. "I imagined you swallowing every drop of my cum like you were starving for it."

The words sent a jolt through me, heat pooling low in my belly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He sat up suddenly, his arms wrapping around me, his mouth finding mine. He kissed me hard, deep, his tongue tangling with mine, and then he flipped us, pressing me into the mattress, never leaving my body.

"My turn," he growled, and he started to move.

He fucked me with a rhythm that was all his — deep, deliberate, each thrust hitting that spot that made me see stars. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my nails raking down his back, and I let him take me. I let him use me. I let him own me.

"Look at me," he commanded, his hand on my jaw, tilting my face up. "I want to see your eyes when you come."

"Mac —"

"Say my name."

"Mac." I sobbed it, my body trembling, the pressure building and building until I couldn't hold it back anymore. "Mac, I'm — I'm going to —"

"Come for me." His thumb found my clit, rubbing in tight circles. "Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel you."

I shattered. My cunt clenched around him, my body convulsing, his name torn from my throat in a scream I couldn't contain. He fucked me through it, his thrusts turning rougher, more desperate, and then he was coming too, spilling inside me with a groan that sounded like a prayer.

We lay there, tangled together, our breathing ragged, our bodies slick with sweat. He collapsed on top of me, his face buried in my neck, and I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close.

"I love you," he murmured against my skin. "I love you so much it scares me."

"I love you too." I ran my fingers through his hair, soft and slow. "More than I ever thought I could love anyone."

He lifted his head, his eyes finding mine in the gray light. "Promise me something."

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll never stop doing that thing with your hips."

I laughed, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and happy. "I promise."

He kissed me, soft and sweet, and I felt the tears prick at my eyes again — not from sadness, never from sadness, but from the sheer overwhelming joy of it. Of him. Of this life we were building together, one jar of mole at a time.

"You know," I said, my voice thick, "I think I'm going to need to learn more recipes."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Because I'm going to be feeding you a lot. And I want to make sure you stay strong."

He grinned, that boyish grin that made my heart flutter. "Strong enough to keep up with you?"

"Exactly."

He rolled off me, pulling me into his arms, and I curled into him, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The gray light was turning golden, the sun rising over the city, and I felt something settle in my chest — something that felt like home.

"Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

I lifted my head, looking at him. "For not running. For staying. For —" I gestured vaguely at everything — "for all of this."

He was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing the curve of my shoulder, and I could feel him thinking — the way his brow furrowed, the way his breath came slower. Then he pulled me closer, his lips pressing to the top of my head.

"You don't have to thank me for that," he said. "I'm not going anywhere. That's not a promise I have to work at keeping. It's just — where I want to be."

I pressed my face into his chest, breathing him in, the warmth of his skin, the faint salt of last night's sweat. The sun was fully up now, spilling gold across the sheets, and I could hear the city waking outside — a car door, a distant siren, someone's dog barking. The world was going about its business, and I was here, wrapped in a man who loved me, in a body I was still learning to call mine.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Jars," I said, and he laughed.

"Jars?"

"The mole. The pozole. The salsa." I lifted my head, looking at him. "Your mother packed us enough food to last a month. She's planning on us coming back."

"She's planning on you coming back," he corrected. "She already loves you more than she loves me."

"That's because I make her son happy."

"That's because you feed her son." He grinned, that boyish grin that made my heart skip. "She's been trying to fatten me up since I was seventeen. You're her ally now."

I laughed, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and warm. "I mean it, though. She's —" I searched for the word, watched his eyes follow my lips as I found it, "— she's everything I didn't know I needed. A mother who looks at me and sees a daughter. Not a problem. Not a case study. Just — family."

His smile softened. "She sees what I see."

"And what's that?"

"Someone worth keeping." He said it simply, like it was a fact of physics, like he'd measured it and checked his work. "Someone who's going to be a great mom. Someone who's going to make a lot of people happy."

I felt the tears prick at my eyes again, and I blinked them back, not wanting to cry, not wanting to break the golden warmth of the morning. "You really believe that."

"I know it." He kissed my forehead, soft and lingering. "Now — you said something about learning more recipes?"

"I did." I pushed myself up, the sheet pooling around my waist. "I was thinking about the carne asada. Your mom mentioned it's your dad's favorite. I want to get it right before we go back."

"We could go back this weekend."

"We could." I chewed my lip, a thought forming. "Or — I could call her. Ask her to walk me through it over the phone."

He raised an eyebrow. "You want to learn my dad's carne asada from my mom over the phone?"

"I want to make it for you. Properly. Not from a jar." I reached for my phone on the nightstand, the screen bright in the morning light. "She gave me her number. She said to call if I had questions."

"She gave you her number?"

"She said —" I found her text, the one she'd sent before we left, a string of heart emojis and a recipe for flan, "— she said she's always wanted a daughter to teach."

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes on me, something shifting in his face. Then he reached out, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.

"You're really going to do this," he said. "You're really going to learn to cook for me. For us."

"I told you. I'm going to feed you." I leaned into his touch, my eyes closing. "I'm going to feed you until you forget you ever ate anything that came out of a box."

"I'll never forget the pizza we shared that first night."

"That was before I knew I loved you." I opened my eyes, looking at him. "Now I have standards."

He laughed, pulling me into him, and I went willingly, my arms wrapping around his neck, my mouth finding his. The kiss was slow at first, sweet, a continuation of the morning's warmth — and then it deepened, his hand sliding down my back, his fingers curling into the waistband of the underwear I'd thrown back on at some point in the night.

"Standards, huh?" he murmured against my lips.

"High ones." I gasped as his fingers slid lower. "Very high."

"Good." He flipped us, pressing me into the mattress, his weight a familiar comfort. "Because I intend to meet every single one."

The sun was high by the time we made it back to the kitchen. My body was sore in all the best ways, a pleasant ache that reminded me of every minute of the morning, and I padded barefoot across the tile, my hair a mess, his shirt hanging off my shoulder. He watched me from the doorway, leaning against the frame, a mug of coffee in his hand, his eyes tracking my every move.

"What?" I asked, reaching for the cabinet.

"Nothing." He took a sip of coffee. "Just enjoying the view."

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't stop the smile. I pulled down the jar of mole — the one Rosa had packed, the one she'd made with her own hands, the one that had been simmering in her kitchen for the better part of a day before we'd arrived. I set it on the counter, and I felt the weight of it, the weight of everything it meant — the welcome, the acceptance, the future we were building.

"You know," I said, my fingers tracing the rim of the jar, "I think I'm ready."

"Ready for what?"

"To call her. To ask her about the carne." I looked at him, and I felt the nerves flutter in my stomach, but they were good nerves, the kind that came with doing something new, something that mattered. "I want to get it right."

He set down his coffee and crossed to me, his hands finding my waist, pulling me into him. He kissed me, slow and sweet, and I melted into him, my fingers curling into his shirt.

"You already got it right," he said against my lips. "The rest is just details."

I smiled, and I reached for my phone.