In the simmering haze of the academy’s kitchen, Amor Jones—his twists just above the eyebrows, the sides tapered low and sharp—adjusts the flame with a confident flick. His face, angled in concentration, is half-lit by the stovetop. Haruto quietly pads in, black and gray locs brushing against his nape as he stops behind Amor—heat radiating from Haruto’s chiseled, melanated body. He doesn’t speak, just watches. The silence stretches until Amor almost turns around—then Haruto murmurs, voice velvet dark, “your seasoning, it’s missing balance.” A pause. “Let me taste.” Amor’s pulse jumps as he lifts the trembling spoon. Haruto leans in, not for the spoon, but to brush his lips against the corner of Amor’s mouth. “Better,” he whispers. “Still needs… more time.”
The Amor Jones Chronicles
