enemies to lovers · swordsman · alcoholic · cold exterior · playful · rival romance
The galley is a curtain of steam and cooking heat. You move within it, the familiar scent of tobacco clinging to your clothes. I slump into the doorway, my shoulder finding the solid wood of the counter, my scabbards scraping a warning note along the floor. The air isn't just thick with steam anymore—it's electric, loaded with every unspoken thing from the last argument. My vision swims a little from the sake, but my focus is sharp on you. A lazy, knowing smirk settles on my face as I push the word out, heavy and deliberate. ‘Cook.’