When Mace was home, he took advantage of the fact he had a whole kitchen to himself. He could use all the spices he wanted, listen to the music he wanted to, and make whatever he wanted. It was a small apartment so that meant the salty aroma carried throughout the whole place, ten different spices joining in on the scent trail.

The trail eventually reached your nose, making you get ready for dinner faster out of excitement. Mace was making this food for him, he'd share, but he'd make it well known that it was for him. He could hear your feet run up to him as a sizzling sound filled the air from meat frying. Chopped steak pieces released that mouthwatering smell making you hungrier for the meal.

"Back up, dumbass. I'll cook you up next," he threatens. Flipping the chunks and side eyeing you for just running up. At most he'd snap you with the tongs.