The sun had sunk low beneath the trees by the time they returned home. The air thick with the smell of warmed earth, heavy with the hum of insects. Shadows stretched across the dirt, and gold licked at the walls. The hut was shit, but it looked pretty in the forest, like a postcard of primitive homestead living.

She had a lot to do.

Sloane had to admit that it was a good spot, with the tiniest mountain stream circling their house just a couple of steps away. She’d used it to gut the fish and wash her hands, had eyed the clear stream for anything edible. But it really was just a tiny rivulet of bubbling water, just enough for cleaning and drinking.

No fish.

She sighed.

Riven started working on the fire immediately, kneeling before the hearth with twigs in his hands. His movements were practised, and it was clearly a familiar chore. He struck stone, a burst of sparks spitting from his fingers like the angriest of bees. The kindling flared, licking up into the air, spreading upon the splinters and spilling light into the room.

Fast.

Sloane watched, unable to stop herself from staring. Light carved the hollows of Riven’s cheeks, drawing out the droop of his ears and the sheen of sweat on his throat. It transformed his face into something almost otherworldly. The slope of his skin lit a gorgeous amber, his cheekbones sharp, his lips vibrant, and his eyes a jewelled gold.

Beautiful.

A strange heat rushed up her cheeks, a low ache unfurling in her chest.

Fuck.

She cleared her throat, turmoil spinning within her. She didn’t want to feed those feelings, not when Sloane had yet to prove herself. Not when they were still desperate for food and survival.

“I’ll cook,” she offered, her own voice too rough in her ears. He didn’t seem to notice the crack in them, shot her a look, eyes narrowed, unreadable. She thought he’d argue, spit out his questions. But this time, he did not comment on it, shrugging as if used to her antics.

“Don’t burn it.”

“You can watch me,” she said, but he only gave her a quiet scoff. He was still rattled from their argument, still unnerved. And she rolled up her sleeves, determined to make something good.

The oats were crushed into a stone bowl, mixed with water from a jug and a single egg that they had bartered for. She mashed up the ramps into a fine paste with a rock and crushed potatoes, stirring them into the batter. The scent rose from the bowl. Wild, green and sharp. When she poured a thin thread of honey into the mixture, the smell turned divine, blossoming into something so good it made her hunger roar.

Riven’s breath stuttered, nose twitching. His eyes darted over from the fire, and her smirk grew.

He had a small cup of oil hidden at the back of the pantry which she used sparingly. She poured out a single coin-sized pool, enough to hiss and bloom in the pot, bubbled away over the fire. When she laid fish in it, the skin buckled and popped, spitting fat as it hit the metal. She dropped a sprig of thyme, then a sprinkle of salt.

The smell filled the room immediately, so rich it was almost unbearable. Salty, savoury, meaty and smoky, strong enough to make her eyes sting and her mouth water. It all clawed at her throat, making her stomach clench and twist.

Riven remained bowed by the fire, but she could see the fluttering pulse in his neck, the bob of his throat as he swallowed desperately. His ears were raised high, listening, waiting.

Eager.

The fish were done soon enough, and she set them close to the fire so that they would stay warm.

“We need more wood,” she said. “More fire for the pancakes—”

He was gone before she finished, back in seconds with his arms filled with logs, the chill of the air still clinging to his skin. He crouched close, feeding the flames, and the fire roared, golden against flushed skin.

When the batter hit the pan, the sound was like music. Oats sang as they set, edges browning. The cakes grew crisp almost immediately, steam rising in tendrils. The smell of good things filled every inch of the air, carrying with it the scent of fried fish, grain, greens and honey. It had been so long since she’d eaten fresh food, and just the thought had her mouth watering.

The first pancake turned golden in the pan, and she flipped it carefully with two sticks. They did not have any kitchen utensils, and so she had to make do with long twigs and thin wood. The edges of the cakes were rough, but the centre puffed up perfectly into a pretty yellow gold, flecked with green ramps and dotted with potato crumbs.

She made eight oatcakes to go with their fish. And Riven reached for his plate when she was done, sitting cross-legged on the ground. The low dining table was a makeshift plank of wood balanced over two stones, but it worked well.

She was surprised to see that he waited, that he’d gone out to wash his hands. He’d also gotten two cups of water, setting them aside on their table. A nod from her, and he was tearing into the food like he was starved. Feral and desperate, he scarfed it all down and then slowed to chew. She watched out of the corner of her eye as his eyes fluttered half-shut, a glare forming on his brow.

He swallowed, a faint unguarded groan escaping his throat. A sound caught between a sigh and a moan, it mewled out of him, twisting softly in the air. His lips parting slightly, tongue flicked out to catch the droplets of fat. He sighed then, cheeks pink as he went in for the second bite.

Sloane looked away, her pulse rising, warmth coiling in her belly, but she ignored it.

She took her own plate then, pancakes still steaming, fish crisp and glistening with fat. The first bite overwhelmed her. The oats were nutty, coarse on her tongue, but so fucking good. A dense, crispy mixture of crunch and melting batter. The ramps were filled with flavour, the potatoes fluffy, the honey clinging and stringy, tearing on her teeth like sweet silk with each bite. The fish flaked, perfectly cooked, pulling easily from the bones, salt and herb calling forth saliva.

The steam filled her mouth and her chest, heat spreading until she felt dizzy from how good it all was.

Sloane hadn’t realised how grey her memories of food had become, how faint and pale it all was in her head. Years of shit, of bark, of blood and rotting meat, of bad, expired cans had ruined her. It had dulled her tongue, had real food blistering in her head. She had forgotten what it was like to taste fresh produce. But now there was colour on her tongue. Colour so sharp it made her want to cry. The textures. The flavours. The warmth.

This was heaven.

She ate slowly despite the hunger, forcing herself not to devour it all down. She wanted to appreciate it, wanted to taste every grain, every drop of honey, every flavour. She rolled it all carefully on her tongue, allowed white flesh to flake, thin skin to crackle, and pancakes to melt. She ate until her belly was more than full, and still her mouth wanted more of that fish, more of that salt.

It was so good; it was almost sinful. She was almost in tears.

Riven was licking his plate when she looked up, his face soft in the firelight, the furrow on his brow had eased. His mouth glistened, lips shimmery. His fingers were sticky with honey. The firelight kissed his skin, and his eyes were dark now, dilating softly from a gentle carnation to an endless void, ears droopy from contentment. He looked almost boyish then, beautiful in a way that made something twist in her belly. He sank back, looking so content that it filled her whole.

She’d made too much, and now a small pile of pancakes remained in the pot.

Too much was a good thing.

They’d have it again for breakfast.

“That was okay,” he said begrudgingly, feigning indifference, but his eyes sparkled. The softest, sweetest trace of his scent filled the air, revealing his truth. A warm smell of gratitude, aching with contentment. Heated sugar, but better.

Sloane smiled faintly, chest growing tight. She’d remember this. The sight of him with his lips glistening, with the heat growing between them. The sight of him coming almost undone by something as simple as food.

Purpose filled her mind then.

She was going to make sure Riven was well-fed and happy.