Yaroslav glanced at him then, his gaze lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. "It will be," he said simply, and something about the way he said it made Beom's heart skip—a sensation he quickly shoved aside.
The kitchen fell back into a comfortable quiet, the only sounds the bubbling pot and the rhythmic clatter of Yaroslav's work. Beom stayed where he was, his thoughts a tangle of conflicting emotions as he watched Yaroslav move, each moment pulling him further into a space he wasn't sure he was ready to occupy.
The moment had come—the sauce. Yaroslav had carefully mixed the ingredients, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he stirred the pot, the simmering liquid thickening and releasing a heady fragrance of garlic, herbs, and seafood. The kitchen, already filled with the mouth-watering aroma, now had an added intensity as Yaroslav adjusted the flame, bringing everything to a perfect simmer.
Beom watched with a sense of anticipation. His stomach rumbled, and despite himself, he felt a bit excited about the meal. Yet, there was something about the sauce that made him pause. The sight of Yaroslav tasting it, nodding in approval, didn't sit right with him. Beom was known for his love of bold flavors, especially when it came to spice.
"Not spicy enough," Beom muttered to himself, feeling a slight pull of annoyance as he eyed the ingredients on the counter. His gaze fell on the small jar of fiery red chili peppers resting beside a bowl of finely chopped herbs.
Without another word, Beom climbed onto the stool that sat at the kitchen counter, balancing himself carefully, the wood creaking under his weight. Yaroslav raised an eyebrow, casting a side glance at him but continuing his task with quiet focus. Beom reached up to the shelf above, his fingers brushing against the jar of chili. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he grabbed a single hot chili pepper from the jar and popped it into his mouth whole, ignoring the slight sting on his tongue.
"Not spicy enough," Beom repeated to Yaroslav, his voice a little sharper now, his competitive streak showing. He twisted the chili between his fingers, squeezing out a spoonful of fiery red paste. The rich, potent scent of the chili filled the air, making his eyes water slightly, but he wasn't deterred. He knew Yaroslav's level of spice tolerance—he was curious to see if the big Russian could handle it.
With a quick flick of his wrist, Beom poured the spoonful of chili paste into the bubbling sauce, watching it swirl into the mixture. The vivid red streaks bloomed through the sauce, infusing it with a fiery glow. Beom couldn't help but smile at the thought of spicing things up, not just with the meal but with the atmosphere too. It was a small act of rebellion, something to challenge the quiet tension that still hung between them, the unspoken words and unresolved issues.
Yaroslav paused in his cooking and looked up, his eyes narrowing as he assessed Beom's actions. "What are you doing?" he asked, his tone bemused but slightly wary. He had clearly noticed the drastic increase in spice.
"What... you don't like spicy food?" Beom asked, turning his head to glance over at him, his lips curling into a grin. "Wow, you're really missing out, kid," he added, his voice playful but with an edge. There was something satisfying about seeing Yaroslav, usually so composed and confident, thrown off just a little by the spice.
Beom took another spoonful of the sauce, bringing it to his lips and letting the heat spread across his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the sharp, fiery burn that danced across his tongue. It was a familiar heat, one he welcomed, one he reveled in. He could feel the warmth building inside of him, the tingling sensation spreading across his skin as his body adjusted to the spice.
"Mhmmm," Beom muttered under his breath as he swallowed, the heat hitting him full force now. His eyes watered slightly, but the flavor was undeniable. "Very hot," he added with a small chuckle, his breath hitching for a moment as the chili began to take its full effect.
He looked over at Yaroslav with a smug expression, his cheeks flushed from the heat. "This is the kind of kick I was talking about. I guess you really don't know what you're missing, huh?" Beom said, a teasing challenge in his voice.
Yaroslav, however, remained calm, his gaze still focused on the pot. He didn't show any sign of surprise, but there was a subtle tightening around his jaw. Beom could tell that Yaroslav, despite his usually indomitable demeanor, wasn't entirely comfortable with how much spice had been added. Perhaps he wasn't used to food that intense. Or maybe he was just playing it cool.
Beom couldn't help but feel a small thrill at how his little act of mischief had shaken things up. The air between them felt a bit lighter now, the tension diffused by this small, silly moment. It was odd how something as simple as food could bridge a gap, even if only temporarily.
As Beom wiped his mouth, he glanced back at Yaroslav, catching the faintest flicker of a smile on his lips. "Are you sure you don't want to try it?" Beom teased, raising an eyebrow. "I promise you'll be hooked."
Yaroslav let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly as he returned to his cooking. "Maybe later, Beom," he said, his tone no longer as distant as before, but still holding a quiet authority. "But I have a feeling you're going to regret that level of spice."
Beom shrugged, unfazed. "I'll take that risk."
The sauce was ready, its vibrant reddish hue coating the seafood boil with a glossy sheen that made the entire dish look like something out of a gourmet magazine. The rich aroma filled the air as Yaroslav carefully poured the sauce over the crab legs, shrimp, mussels, and corn, the steam curling upwards in wispy tendrils. The kitchen was alive with the scent of spice and seafood, a combination that felt hearty and indulgent.
Yaroslav carried the heavy pot to the dining table with ease, his muscles flexing slightly as he set it down on a trivet. The table was simple yet inviting—plates stacked neatly, utensils aligned, and a small pitcher of water placed in the center. Beom followed behind, his eyes darting to the pot like a hawk tracking its prey. His stomach rumbled loudly, betraying his eagerness.
As Beom plopped down into his seat, his gaze shifted to the glasses on the table. "Huh... no alcohol for me?" he asked, a playful lilt in his voice as he cocked an eyebrow at Yaroslav.
Yaroslav, already settling into his chair, glanced at him with a calm expression. "No," he said firmly, his tone leaving little room for negotiation. "The doctor said no alcohol for now. You need to heal fast."
Beom rolled his eyes but couldn't argue with the logic. He picked up his fork and glanced at the seafood boil before him, the sauce glistening under the warm light. This looks amazing, he thought, his mouth practically watering at the sight. Without hesitation, he reached for one of the sausages nestled among the seafood, dipping it generously into the thick sauce.
The first bite was heavenly. The sausage was juicy and smoky, the sauce adding layers of heat and flavor that danced across his tongue. The spice hit hard, but Beom welcomed it, savoring the way it built gradually, spreading warmth through his mouth and down his throat. He let out a small hum of satisfaction, leaning back slightly in his chair as he chewed. Damn, that's good. Like, really good.
His eyes flicked to Yaroslav, who had just taken his first bite. The big Russian's composure, usually unshakable, was beginning to falter. Beom watched as Yaroslav's jaw tightened slightly, his brows furrowing as he chewed slower than usual. A faint flush was creeping up his neck, and his movements seemed more deliberate, like he was trying to mask his struggle.
Beom smirked, resting his chin on his hand as he leaned forward to watch the spectacle. Oh, this is priceless. Yaroslav, the stoic and composed man who could intimidate with just a glance, was fighting for his life against the spice. The contrast was almost too much for Beom to handle.
"Too spicy for you?" Beom asked, his tone dripping with mock innocence.
Yaroslav shot him a look, his expression hard to read but with a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "It's fine," he said gruffly, though the faint sheen of sweat forming on his forehead betrayed him. He reached for the pitcher of water, pouring himself a glass with more urgency than usual.
Beom couldn't help but laugh softly, shaking his head. "I told you, spice makes everything better. You've got to embrace it." He took another bite of the sausage, this time dipping it even deeper into the sauce, just to prove his point. The heat didn't faze him; if anything, it invigorated him.
Yaroslav took a sip of water, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. He set the glass down with a little more force than necessary, his gaze settling on Beom. "You seem to be enjoying yourself," he said, his voice low and steady, though there was a hint of exasperation in his tone.
Beom grinned, his teeth flashing as he popped a shrimp into his mouth. "What can I say? I like living dangerously."
Yaroslav shook his head, muttering something in Russian under his breath as he reached for another piece of seafood. Beom couldn't understand the words, but the tone was unmistakable—Yaroslav was determined not to let the spice defeat him, even if it meant enduring the burn.
As they ate, Beom found himself stealing glances at Yaroslav, watching the way he methodically peeled the shrimp or cracked the crab legs, his movements precise despite the evident struggle. He's stubborn, I'll give him that, Beom thought, a small pang of admiration threading through his amusement.
The meal continued in a strangely companionable silence, broken only by the occasional clink of utensils and the sound of water being poured. Beom's thoughts drifted as he ate, the heat from the food warming him from the inside out. Despite everything—the history, the tension, the unresolved feelings—there was something oddly comforting about this moment. Sitting across from Yaroslav, sharing a meal, teasing him about his spice tolerance—it almost felt... normal.
But the shadows of the past lingered, and Beom knew better than to let his guard down completely. Still, as he licked the spicy sauce from his fingers and caught Yaroslav eyeing the pitcher of water like it was his lifeline.