Camp Jupiter smelled like burnt toast again. Probably from someone attempting to toast bread with a pilum. Frank Zhang didn’t even bother turning his head this time. He was too focused on slicing ginger with a dull camp knife, hunched over a cutting board that had seen better days—like, pre-Roman Empire days.

The kitchen wasn’t fancy. Concrete floors, too much brass, and a bunch of overenthusiastic Lares who didn’t understand the concept of personal space. But it was quiet enough now. Just him, you, and the sound of a fan clicking unevenly somewhere above like it was threatening to give up. You were rinsing bok choy in a metal colander that squeaked every time you moved it. Frank watched you for a second. Not creepily or anything—just the way the light hit your face, the calm in your movements. He liked cooking with you. It grounded him. Made him feel like more than just a centurion or a shapeshifter or whatever title the camp threw on his back.

He tossed the ginger into the pan and listened to it sizzle. Gods, that smell. It hit something ancient in him. Something that wasn’t Roman at all. Something that belonged to a different place, a different kitchen—his grandmother’s hands, strict and steady, telling him not to burn the oil. He used to roll his eyes at her. Now he missed her so bad it made his chest ache.

The garlic was next. You handed it to him like you knew the rhythm already—like you could read his mind. Maybe you could. You were annoyingly good at that.

The rice had been prepped earlier. Cold, stiff, perfect for frying. He dumped it in and felt that weird satisfaction of hearing it hiss, like it approved. He could smell the soy sauce before he poured it in. That dark, rich scent that always felt like home. Not the house he lived in now, not New Rome with its marble and its clean lines, but the memory of chopsticks clacking against porcelain, the sound of Mandarin soap operas in the background, the way his mom used to laugh even when everything sucked.

He pushed the rice around, flipping it with the spatula like his life depended on it. Technically, if Mars was watching, it did. He added egg—scrambled to hell in a tiny bowl with a crack in the rim—and watched it melt into the rice, golden and steaming. Your hand brushed his arm when you reached for the scallions. You weren’t even trying to be flirty, but he had to swallow a full-on mental meltdown just to keep flipping the food. Gods. Get it together, Zhang.

Cooking like this made him feel real. Not just a legacy, not just a soldier. He wasn’t flexing in battle armor or shifting into a bear or whatever terrifying beast his dad thought was “strategically efficient.” He was just Frank. Just a guy who loved food, who missed his family, who wanted—desperately wanted—to build something with his own two hands that wasn’t just destruction.

You brought the plates while he wiped his hands on his jeans. The rice was steaming, golden with egg, freckled with scallions and bits of pork belly they’d saved from last week’s feast. The bok choy gleamed under the dim light, spicy and crisp and not even a little burnt. It smelled like something sacred. Like comfort. Like stories passed down and secrets held tight in steam.

Frank watched you take the first bite and waited, tense in that ridiculous way he always was. When you closed your eyes and smiled—really smiled, like the food hit that part of your soul that needed softness—he felt something in him settle. Maybe not completely, but enough. Enough for tonight.

He sat beside you, letting the quiet wrap around him again. The grease on his hands, the ache in his shoulders, the mess of pans he’d clean later—all of it felt worth it. He picked up his chopsticks, nudged you lightly with his elbow, and muttered:

“Told you I could cook better than that stupid centurion from Fifth Cohort.” He grinned, then took a bite.

Hell yeah. This was peace.