Chapter 5 Confessions Over Sofrito

Skye's POV

I stared at my phone, heart pounding as I re-read my own message to Zane. What was I thinking, threatening him with an exposé? More importantly, why had I just lied to a health department inspector about being a journalist?

Ruby's press badge felt heavy in my pocket, a reminder that I was way outside my comfort zone.

"Get it together, Mitchell," I muttered, pacing my apartment.

The notebook I'd grabbed was actually my plot outline for my latest mystery novel, and I'd nearly dropped it three times while bluffing my way through that conversation with Inspector Ortiz.

A text buzzed: Door's open. Bring your appetite and your questions.

The scent of garlic and spices was already seeping under my door, making my stomach growl traitorously. Before I could overthink it, I grabbed my laptop - actual journalists took notes, right? - and crossed the hall.

Zane's apartment was... not what I expected. Where mine was minimalist and monochrome, his exploded with color and life. Copper pots hung from a rack above a professional-grade stove.

Herbs grew in mismatched pots along the windowsill. The walls were covered in what looked like children's artwork - bright crayon drawings of food and smiling figures.

"You came," Zane said softly from behind me, making me jump. He was wearing a black apron over a faded t-shirt that read 'Time to Get Whisked Away.'

His hair was its usual controlled chaos, and there was a smudge of something red - tomato sauce? - on his forearm just above that small burn scar I'd noticed before.

"I said I would," I replied, aiming for professional detachment but probably landing closer to defensive. "One hour. Explain."

He gestured to a barstool at his kitchen island. "Sit. Eat first, then talk."

"I'm not hungry," I lied, just as my stomach betrayed me with an audible growl.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Sure you're not. Humor me anyway?"

Before I could argue, the door burst open. A tall man with dreadlocks tied back in a neat bundle strode in, designer glasses glinting. "Zane, we need to- oh." He stopped short at the sight of me. "You must be The Neighbor."

"The Neighbor?" I echoed.

"Marcus," Zane warned.

"The one who's been driving our boy crazy," Marcus continued, ignoring Zane's increasingly panicked head-shaking. "Though he failed to mention how pretty you are when you're not yelling about noise violations."

My face heated. "I haven't yelled. Much."

"She threatens legal action very politely," Zane agreed, setting a plate in front of me.

The aroma hit me like a memory: rich tomatoes, garlic, herbs I couldn't name but somehow knew. He'd taken the sofrito and turned it into what looked like the world's most perfect pasta sauce, served over fresh fettuccine.

"I should go," Marcus said, backing toward the door with a grin that reminded me of Ruby's matchmaking expressions. "Clearly interrupted something."

"It's not-" I started, but he was already gone.

Zane sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry about him. Marcus has known me since culinary school. He thinks he's helping."

"Is he?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Our eyes met across the kitchen island. Something electric crackled in the air between us, making it hard to breathe. Then a timer dinged, breaking the moment.

"Eat," he said, pushing the plate closer. "Before it gets cold."

I took a bite, intending to be clinical about it. But the flavors... "Oh," I whispered, unable to help myself. It tasted like Sunday dinners and family gatherings and everything I'd been running from since that night.

"Good?" His voice was gentle, like he understood exactly what was happening in my head.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. We sat in surprisingly comfortable silence while I ate, Zane occasionally stirring something that smelled amazing on the stove.

"The supper club started by accident," he said finally, still focused on his cooking. "I was testing recipes for Marcus's restaurant, and Tommy - you've met Tommy - he was sleeping in the alley behind the building. Said the smell was torture when he hadn't eaten in two days."

My fork paused halfway to my mouth. "So you fed him."

"So I fed him," Zane agreed. "And then he brought Maria, who hadn't eaten in three days. And she brought someone else... it just grew from there."

"Without permits," I pointed out, but my heart wasn't in it.

He finally turned to face me, his expression serious. "You're right. It's not strictly legal. But these kids, these people - they've all been failed by the 'legal' systems that were supposed to help them. So yes, I run an unauthorized supper club out of my apartment. Yes, it's noisy sometimes. But every person who comes through that door gets at least one good meal and a few hours of feeling human again."

"Why are you telling me all this?" I asked, even though I thought I knew.

"Because you understand what it's like to have your whole world shattered in one night. To lose your sense of safety, of home." He stepped closer, close enough that I could see flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "And because I think you also understand what it means to find it again."

A crash from the hallway made me flinch. Zane's hand found mine instantly, steady and warm. "Just Tommy probably dropping his skateboard again," he said softly. "You're safe here."

And the thing was... I believed him.

The silence that followed felt different – charged with something I wasn't ready to name. I stared at our joined hands, noticing how his larger one completely enveloped mine, warm and calloused from years of kitchen work.

"I should probably..." I started to pull away, but his grip tightened slightly.

"Stay," he said softly. "Please. I'm making dessert."

"Dessert wasn't part of our deal," I pointed out, but I didn't move. My heart was doing strange things in my chest.

He grinned – that infectious, warm smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Consider it a bonus for saving me from Inspector Ortiz. Where did you get that press badge anyway?"

"Ruby," I admitted. "She leaves things in my mailbox. Yesterday it was the badge and a note saying 'just in case.'"

Zane laughed, finally releasing my hand to check something in the oven. "That sounds like Ruby. She has an uncanny ability to be prepared for everything."

"Is she..." I hesitated, not sure how to ask. "Are you and she...?"

"Me and Ruby?" He looked genuinely startled, then amused. "God no. She's like the annoying little sister I never wanted. Besides, she's too busy playing matchmaker to date anyone herself."

The relief I felt at his answer was... inconvenient.

"What are you making?" I asked, changing the subject as I watched him pull what looked like a ceramic dish from the oven.

"Arroz con leche – rice pudding," he said, setting it on a cooling rack. "My grandmother's recipe. She used to make it whenever any of us were sad or scared. Said sweet rice could fix anything."

"Could it?" The words came out smaller than I intended.

He looked at me then, really looked at me, like he could see straight through all my carefully constructed walls. "Sometimes. Sometimes it just gives you a moment of peace while you figure things out."

I swallowed hard. "Is that what you're doing here? Giving people moments of peace?"

"Among other things." He started spooning the pudding into two small bowls. "Food has power, you know? It's memory and comfort and connection all wrapped up in one. When everything else feels scary or out of control, a good meal can be an anchor."

His words hit too close to home. I thought about all the takeout containers piling up in my trash since moving in, how I hadn't cooked a proper meal since... since before.

"Here," he said, sliding a bowl toward me. The pudding was still warm, sprinkled with cinnamon and something that smelled like vanilla. "Try it."

I took a careful spoonful, and... oh. OH. It was creamy and sweet but not too sweet, with hints of spice and citrus that made it somehow both comforting and exciting.

"This is..." I struggled to find words.

"Good?" he suggested, his eyes twinkling.

"Shut up and let me have my moment," I muttered, taking another spoonful.

He laughed – a real laugh, deep and genuine – and the sound did something to my insides that had nothing to do with the pudding.

"You know," he said conversationally, "you're much less intimidating when you're having a religious experience over dessert."

I pointed my spoon at him threateningly. "I can still write that exposé."

"No, you can't." His voice was gentle. "Because you understand now, don't you? What we're doing here?"

I did. God help me, I did. Every bite of food he'd shared had told a story – of community, of healing, of finding family in unexpected places. It was everything I'd been running from, everything I thought I couldn't handle anymore.

"I should go," I said, standing abruptly. "It's been more than an hour."

"Skye." Just my name, but the way he said it made me pause. "Come to dinner tomorrow night. Not the supper club – just dinner. Let me cook for you properly."

I should have said no. Should have maintained my safe distance. Instead, I heard myself say, "What time?"

"Seven?" His smile was hopeful. "I promise to keep the noise down."

"Seven," I agreed, already regretting it. "But this isn't... I mean, we're not..."

"Just dinner," he assured me, but his eyes said something else entirely.

I fled back to my apartment, my heart racing. Through the wall, I could hear him humming as he cleaned up – some old love song that my traitor brain immediately memorized.

What was I getting myself into?

On my laptop, my latest manuscript sat open, the cursor blinking accusingly. But instead of my planned murder mystery, I found myself typing:

The chef's kitchen smelled like memories and second chances...

I slammed the laptop closed. I was in so much trouble.