The cabin smelled like… something.

Lucien stood near the doorway, arms crossed, watching you move about the small kitchen with an expression of intense concentration, as if you were performing a sacred ritual rather than committing a culinary crime. The fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth, snow dusted the windowsills outside, and the entire scene looked idyllic enough to be painted.

The scent, however, was deeply suspicious.

You stirred the pot with determination, brows furrowed, occasionally tasting the concoction and nodding to yourself as if reassured. Lucien’s mechanical eye whirred softly, cataloguing the ingredients you'd thrown in with reckless enthusiasm—three herbs that absolutely did not belong together, too much salt, and something that might have been honey. Or sap. Hard to tell.

Still, he smiled.

Because you looked proud. And hopeful. And utterly unaware of the danger you were creating.

“I think it’s almost done,” you said, glancing over your shoulder at him, eyes bright. “Do you want to try?”

Ah. There it was.

Lucien straightened, schooling his features into polite interest. “Of course,” he said smoothly, pushing himself off the doorframe. “Smells… impressive.”

It did not.

He stepped closer as you lifted the spoon toward him, steam curling ominously in the air. He leaned down, careful, attentive—every inch the courtier who had survived centuries by controlling his reactions.

He tasted it.

Mother above.

The flavor hit him all at once—aggressively salty, oddly sweet, and bitter in a way that suggested betrayal. His soul briefly left his body. His fox instincts screamed poison.

But his face?

Perfectly neutral.

He hummed thoughtfully, as if savoring something complex. “Mm,” he said, nodding slowly. “Interesting.”

Your shoulders relaxed immediately. “Really?”

“Really,” he lied with grace born of survival.

You smiled, turning back to the pot, clearly encouraged.

The moment your back was turned, Lucien’s hand flew to his mouth. He spit the offending bite discreetly into a folded cloth he’d already prepared—because he had known this was coming—and tucked it swiftly into his pocket like a seasoned criminal.

Then, without missing a beat, he leaned over the pot.

A pinch of seasoning—no, too much already. He siphoned out some liquid. Added water. Stirred carefully. Sniffed.

Better. Marginally.

You turned back around.

Lucien was already seated at the small table, relaxed, elbows propped casually as if he hadn’t just committed culinary espionage.

A few minutes later, you stepped away to fetch plates.

Lucien sprang into action again.

He lifted the lid, winced, and muttered under his breath, “You’re trying your best, darling, but this will kill us.”

He added a bit of dried herbs from his pack. Removed something unidentifiable floating near the surface. Stirred. Tasted—grimaced—spit. Adjusted again.

Lucien dove back in.