The sun had been a bastard today.

Beating down like it had something personal against you, sweat clinging to your back even as the clouds rolled in. Dirt caked under your nails, your muscles screaming. You’d been tearing at that damn row for hours, and your reward was a sunburn, a half-dug irrigation trench, and the slow realization that you hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast.

Which is why you practically crawled into Reth’s kitchen.

The smell hit you first—spiced broth and fresh herbs, something buttery on the stove, and that rich, godsent heat that clung to the air like a blanket. You slumped hard onto the nearest bench, trying to catch your breath.

“Hey,” came that familiar voice, damn that voice.

Reth was sliding up beside you, apron dusted with flour, a lazy grin curled on his lips like it’d just occurred to him to flirt. His eyes swept over your state—sweaty, dirt-streaked, utterly wiped—and he seemed delighted by it.

“You. Me. Backroom. Five minutes?”

You blinked.

Then stood.

He blinked.

“Wait—uhh—wait— what?”

Reth’s ears went red. Bright, traitorous, beet-red, all the way to the tips. He clapped a hand over his mouth and let out a half-strangled sound, somewhere between a giggle and a whimper. “Oh,” he mumbled through his fingers, absolutely suffering, “I wasn’t actually expecting you to—uhhh. What do I say in this situation?”

He turned to face the kitchen counter, gripping the edge like it might steady him. “You got me all worked up,” he muttered, voice practically a whine now, “now how am I gonna focus on the soup?”