"Salt, Natasha." I said, hand out, not looking. She passed it without a word.
"Thank you. Be a dear and set the table? Chicken's almost done."
As she moved across the room, I stepped behind her and gently pulled her in—close enough to speak low.
"So tell me." I said, turning the heat down, "What drink suits you best? A martini—for elegance and control? Red wine, bold and layered like the past you never talk about? Or something playful. A cocktail. Something that hides a sharp bite under sweetness."
She glanced at me over her shoulder. "Trying to profile me again, chef?"
"No. Just admiring the view while I work. Though if I had a say, I'd pick the martini."
She smirked, slipped free. "Planning to get me drunk?"
"You're a second-rate super soldier." I said, flipping the chicken, "You don't get drunk easy. But yes. I'm trying anyway."
"And why's that?" she asked, stacking plates.
"Because its you. No, its not the intel from you. Everything in your head. I already have. And the parts you don't even realize are there? I have those too."
She paused, just for a second, then walked the plates to the table.
"So." I asked, keeping my tone light, "how would you like your martini, Natasha?"
"Surprise me." she said.
"I will."
I plated the chicken—pan-seared, black truffle shaved on top—then started mixing. Vodka, razzmatazz, pomegranate, triple sec, blueberry, a little syrup to round the edges. Black gel coloring. Shaken. Strained. Chilled.
I placed the glass in front of her like an offering. She studied it.
"Black, huh?" she asked, lifting it carefully. "You trying to poison me, chef?"
"You haven't paid me yet. Poisoning you wouldn't be cost-effective." I took a sip from the same glass and handed it back. "Besides, I'd rather cook for you than kill you."
"And flirt with me?" she said, sipping slowly. "You skipped a few steps there."
"If I wanted to be in your bed, Natasha, I'd already be in it." I said it without ego, just certainty. Then: "But that's not what I'm after.
She didn't respond. Just watched me. Still. Quiet.
"Chicken." I said, breaking the silence. "Sear-fried, truffled. Try it before it gets cold. I worked hard, madam. Do remember to pay me."
She sat, picked up her fork, and took a bite.
"Not bad." she said. Then: "But your salary depends on your consistency. Don't get cocky, chef."
She took another sip of the martini. Paused. Smiled—just faintly.
"Vodka. Pomegranate. Blueberry. Bit of razzmatazz. Triple sec." She looked up at me. "And black gel."
"Sharp as always." I said. "Three part vodka, two part razzmatazz, one part each from the rest. The black? A symbol. Not just color. Not just darkness. You— the storm between light and void."
"You should've been a poet." she said, voice softer now. "Maybe a philosopher who flirts between metaphors."
"Maybe I'm both. Maybe I'm just someone who notices things." I handed her the second martini.
She took it without hesitation. "And what exactly are you noticing tonight?"
I looked at her. Not the smirk. Not the suit. Just her.
"That even someone like you." I said, "lets their guard down… when the room's quiet enough."
She stared for a second. Said nothing.
Then—downed the martini in one smooth motion.
"Charming as ever, Mr. Ranger." she said. "But don't start thinking that means I like you."
"Of course not, madam." I said with a faint smile. I poured her the third glass. "It's just the drinks talking."
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They stood by the glass, the canyon swallowing what little light was left of the day. The sky had gone quiet. The kind of silence only wide, ancient places can hold.
The red bled through the horizon like an old wound refusing to close.
"You ever wonder." I said, swirling what was left in my glass, "why red always gets the worst reputation?"
She didn't look at me. Her eyes were on the cliffside.
"Go on." she said. Calm. Guarded.
"It's the color of danger. Violence. Blood. Stop signs. Sirens. The warning on the label that says, 'Don't drink this, it'll kill you.'"
I took a slow sip. "But it's also the first color we see. The first spark in the dark. Fire. Heat. Life."
She said nothing. But her posture shifted—just slightly.
"That canyon?" I continued, nodding out the window. "That light, violent red? It's not warning anyone. It's not trying to scare people off. It just is. Carved by time. By pressure. By violence it didn't ask for."
I glanced at her—noticing the way the fading sunlight caught the edges of her hair.
"You and that canyon have something in common."
She exhaled through her nose. Almost a laugh. "Let me guess. Depth and beauty hiding a brutal past?"
"Not hiding." I said. "Living with."
She finally looked at me. Her expression unreadable—but not uninterested.
"That's a hell of a metaphor." she said.
"You dye it?" I asked, nodding toward her hair.
"What do you think?"
"Red like that doesn't come easy. Not the kind that burns and means it."
I turned back to the canyon. "Most people paint it on to look dangerous. You? You wear it like a flag planted in a battlefield you could never leave."
There was silence for a moment. The wind howled across the canyon lip.
"I chose it." she said finally.
"Not for beauty. Not for attention. To remember who I used to be. And what I turned into"
"Remember what?"
She didn't answer. Just took a long drink and watched the canyon darken.
I didn't press her. That was enough.
She didn't walk away.
And that—was everything.
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Till Chapter 10 its gonna be a bit of flirting, philosophy, metaphors. So if you hate it skip it.
And give me stones. Power stones.