Cooking Disaster
Sofia's POV
By the time we finally left the park, it was past 3 a.m. The streets were quiet, and the whole city felt like it was sleeping, except for us. I was still holding onto the massive stuffed bear, barely keeping my eyes open in the car.
Leandro didn’t say much on the drive, but every now and then, I’d catch him glancing at me. He looked… content. Calm. Like maybe, just maybe, that night had meant something to him too.
He drove through a tall black gate and up a winding road that led to a sprawling mansion tucked away at the top of somewhere. It was the kind of place you’d only see in magazines. Wide open grounds, towering trees, and lights that lined the driveway like a welcome path made of stars.
“Woah,” I whispered as we pulled up. I definitely should stop getting surprised every time I come into any one of his mansions. It's just hard to get used to.
I gave him a side-eye. “Must be nice to be rich and mysterious.”
“You have no idea.”
The inside was even more breathtaking. High ceilings, clean lines, glass walls that looked out onto a private pool and garden. But despite all the money and style, it still felt like him. Dark tones. Sharp edges. A little cold but solid, steady.
Safe.
I dropped onto the massive leather couch and let out a dramatic sigh. “Okay, I’m never moving. This is my new home. You can’t kick me out. I’ve claimed it.”
He smirked and leaned against the wall. “At least eat something before you start redecorating.”
“I’m starving,” I groaned, holding my stomach.
“I’ll make something,” he said, already walking toward the kitchen.
I sat up fast. “Wait! No. No, no, no. You always cook. Let me do it this time.”
He paused and raised a brow. “You want to cook for me?”
“Yes. Let me impress you.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Impress me how exactly? Like… microwave popcorn or real food?”
I gasped and stood, full of fake offense. “Wow. So rude. Watch and learn, Rossi. You’re about to witness greatness.”
He crossed his arms and leaned on the counter, clearly amused. “By all means. Go ahead, Chef Flores.”
I marched into the kitchen like I was about to film an episode of MasterChef. I tied my hair up, grabbed an apron I found hanging by the fridge (black, of course), and started opening cabinets like I knew what I was doing.
I absolutely did not know what I was doing.
First mistake, I picked a pan way too big. Second mistake, I had no idea how to turn on his sleek, high-tech stove.
“Um… how do you make this thing light up?” I asked, poking random buttons.
“You press the symbol that looks like fire.”
“They all look like fire.”
He chuckled but stayed where he was.
Eventually, I got it on. Kind of.
“Okay. I’m making eggs,” I announced.
“Bold choice. At 3:30 a.m.”
I cracked the first egg and of course half the shell fell in the pan.
I panicked. Tried to scoop it out with a spoon. Ended up pushing it deeper into the egg white. Leandro cleared his throat.
“You good over there?”
“Totally fine,” I said through gritted teeth, fishing the shell out with my fingers.
Second egg, cracked too hard. Splash. Half the egg on the counter, the other half on my wrist. I might’ve muttered a curse under my breath.
Leandro was trying so hard not to laugh. I could see it in the way his mouth twitched.
“Don’t say it,” I warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
He came over then, slow and smug. Rolled up his sleeves, stood behind me, and gently took the spatula from my hand.
“Let me help you.”
“I was doing fine.”
“You were murdering the eggs.”
I huffed, but I let him take over. He moved so smoothly like he belonged in that kitchen. A total boss even while flipping eggs.
I watched him from the side, arms crossed, trying not to look impressed.
“Okay, fine,” I muttered. “You win. You’re the god of making breakfast.”
He grinned. “That means a lot coming from the girl who almost set off my smoke alarm.”
“Hey, at least I tried.”
He handed me a plate. “You did. Gold star for effort.”
I took the plate, sat at the counter, and started eating. It was honestly the best eggs I’d ever had. Or maybe I was just too hungry to care. Or maybe… it tasted better because he made it.
He sat beside me, close enough for our knees to bump.
It was quiet for a minute. Just the sound of forks scraping plates and the soft hum of music from somewhere down the hall.
“You’re different when you smile,” I said, without thinking.
He looked up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Less scary. More human.”
He snorted softly. “Noted.”
I looked around the kitchen, then back at him. “Thank you… for tonight. For all of it. I really needed that.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me in that way he always does, like he sees more than I want to show.
“You’re welcome,” he finally said.
And that was enough.
We finished eating and cleaned up together, me mostly pretending to help while he did the real work and by the time we finally made it upstairs, I was dead tired.
He walked me to the guest room himself. Opened the door. Flicked on the light.
“You sure you’ll be okay here?” he asked.
I smiled. “With you ten steps away and cameras all over the place? I’ll be fine.”
He nodded and started to walk away.
“Leandro?” I called softly.
He turned.
I held up my bear. “Thanks for winning me this. He’s my emotional support animal now.”
He smiled again, small, but real.
“Get some sleep, Chef Flores.”
I rolled my eyes and shut the door behind me.
And for the first time in days… I felt like I could actually rest.