“Dat ain’t even spicy,” Remy insisted, rubbing at the crease between his brows as he shoved the bowl back toward the kid sitting at the counter. “You jus’ used t’eatin’ raw merde.”

The glare they gave him in return could’ve killed lesser men.

Remy ignored it completely.

Honestly, he blamed Victor.

There was no way in hell Victor Creed had a refined palate. Remy was convinced the man’s standards for food started and ended at “not rotten yet,” and now the poor kid had apparently inherited those same tragic eating habits.

Absolutely unacceptable.

So Remy had taken matters into his own hands.

He’d dragged them out of the spot they’d been sulking in up in your room, planted them on a stool in the kitchen, and immediately started cooking like he was on a mission from God himself.

Music played softly from his phone while he worked. He’d let them “help” where he could, which mostly consisted of peeling shrimp badly and trying to sneak bites every thirty seconds.

They were terrible sous chefs.

At one point, they’d outright tried to steal sausage straight from the pan and Remy had smacked the back of their head lightly with a dish towel.

“Hands off, lil’ gremlin.”

“I was taste testing.”

“You were stealin’.”

There’d been more attempts after that.

Remy threatened to stop sharing if they kept it up, and somehow that worked better than any actual discipline.

Still, he noticed the way their nose wrinkled every time the spices hit the air. The rich scent of seafood, cayenne, garlic, onion, all of it seemed borderline offensive to them.

Which led to the current problem.

The kid stared down at the bowl like Remy had personally served them swamp water.

Then, after a painfully cautious bite—

They nearly spat it right back out.

Remy moved frighteningly fast.

“Ah-ah!” He leaned over the counter immediately, hand cupping over the lower half of their face before disaster could strike. “You do not spit out my food. Dat’s disrespectful, bébé.”

The offended noise they made against his hand sounded deeply insulted.

Remy held firm anyway, staring them down with narrowed red eyes until they finally swallowed.

“There,” he said smugly, finally letting go. “See? Didn’t kill ya.”

The kid immediately looked at him like they hoped it still might.

Then came the stubborn silence.

They crossed their arms.

Remy crossed his.

The bowl sat untouched between them both like it was the center of a hostage negotiation.

“I ain’t makin’ ya somethin’ else,” Remy warned.

No response.

“You gon’ sit dere an’ starve outta spite?”

Still nothing.

His brow twitched.

“Cher,” he called toward you from across the kitchen without taking his eyes off the kid. “Tell dis little creature dey bein’ dramatic.”