Beyound the schedule

I sat on the plush white couch in the sprawling living room, my gaze drifting toward the open kitchen, where Freya moved with effortless confidence.

I had to admit—despite all of my initial skepticism, she looked like she knew what she was doing.

Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing strong, toned forearms, and her short blue hair was slightly tousled from when she had run her fingers through it earlier.

She wasn't just messing around—she was focused, movements precise as she worked over the stove, her hands moving with an almost instinctive ease.

The scent of garlic, fresh herbs, and something rich and savory filled the air, curling around me as I sat with my legs crossed, watching her with quiet curiosity.

She had changed into something more casual—a loose black tank top and comfortable shorts, exposing long, athletic legs and an air of relaxed ease that was almost foreign to me.

Freya didn't move like someone who was trying to be good at cooking.

She moved like someone who knew she was good at it.

I had expected chaos—maybe some flour spilled across the counter, ingredients haphazardly thrown into a pan with reckless abandon, a recipe being completely ignored in favor of some brilliant but absurd improvisation.

But no.

This wasn't reckless at all.

This was skillful.

She was chopping vegetables with sharp precision, her knife gliding smoothly as she worked with a natural rhythm, her expression slightly more serious than usual.

The usual mischief in her eyes was replaced with something calm, focused—almost tranquil.

And for the first time since meeting her, I saw a version of Freya without the bravado, without the showmanship.

Just someone fully in their element.

Her hands moved effortlessly, tossing ingredients into a hot pan with a flick of her wrist, the scent of caramelized onions and seared spices intensifying as the oil sizzled loudly.

She tilted her head slightly, adjusting the heat with muscle memory alone, her eyes briefly flicking toward the pot of pasta boiling beside her before returning to the sauce she was reducing with perfect timing.

A wooden spoon dipped into the pan, her wrist twisting slightly as she lifted it to her lips, blowing gently before taking a small, careful taste.

Then, without even looking away, she reached for the salt and added a precise pinch, not measuring, not second-guessing—just knowing.

I was fascinated.

"Where did you learn to cook like this?" I asked finally, unable to keep the question inside any longer.

Freya glanced at me, smirking as she continued stirring. "What, surprised?"

I tilted my head. "Honestly? Yes."

She chuckled, reaching for a sprig of fresh basil, tearing it effortlessly between her fingers before tossing it into the pan.

"My mom taught me," she said casually. "She used to say that if I was gonna be a 'rebellious little brat' and refuse to settle down, then I should at least know how to feed myself properly."

I raised an eyebrow. "Sounds… supportive?"

"Oh, incredibly," Freya said with a grin, rolling her eyes. "She figured that if I wasn't gonna 'become a doctor or a lawyer like a normal child,' then I'd better at least not rely on takeout for the rest of my life."

I hummed. "Practical."

"Extremely."

She turned back to the stove, checking the pasta again before expertly draining it, steam rising around her in delicate wisps.

I tapped my fingers against my knee, watching her as I tried to piece together something new—a version of Freya that I hadn't seen before.

There was always a part of me that assumed she was all reckless impulse, someone who never planned, never thought things through.

But there was discipline here, tucked neatly beneath the easygoing exterior, hidden in the way she cooked, the way she instinctively knew what flavors worked, the way she moved with an effortless confidence that wasn't just natural talent, but experience.

I found myself leaning forward slightly, unable to pull my attention away from her hands, from the way they moved with intention, from the way she tasted her sauce again, nodded slightly to herself, and adjusted with just the right amount of seasoning.

This was precise work.

And I respected precision.

Freya caught my gaze, her smirk widening slightly as she plated the dish, twisting the pasta neatly onto the plate before drizzling the sauce over it with a flourish.

I narrowed my eyes slightly, refusing to give her the satisfaction of knowing how unexpectedly impressive this was.

She set the plate down in front of me and grabbed a fork, twirling it between her fingers before placing it next to the dish.

Then she leaned forward, resting her hands on the counter, watching me expectantly.

"Now taste it."

I took the fork, eyeing the plate suspiciously.

Freya had made fresh pasta with a rich, aromatic tomato and basil sauce, the kind that smelled like warmth and comfort, the kind that—if she was actually good at this—could rival something from a high-end Italian restaurant.

She was still watching me, arms crossed, a smug grin tugging at her lips.

I sighed, twirling the pasta onto my fork. "If this is terrible, I'm never letting you cook again."

Freya gasped, placing a dramatic hand over her chest. "Whitmore, your faith in me is truly inspiring."

I took a bite.

And then—I hated myself for it—I actually froze.

Because it was good.

No. Not just good. It was incredible.

The flavors were perfectly balanced, the sauce clinging to the pasta in just the right way, the fresh basil adding a hint of brightness, the garlic and herbs layered beautifully—rich, savory, and completely unexpected.

I kept my expression neutral, chewing slowly, refusing to give Freya the satisfaction of knowing just how ridiculously talented she actually was.

But she was watching me like a hawk, waiting for a reaction, her smirk only growing wider as the seconds passed.

Finally, I swallowed.

"It's… acceptable."

Freya burst out laughing. "Oh my God, you loved it."

I took another bite, still refusing to look at her. "I said it was acceptable."

She slid onto the couch beside me, grinning like she had just won an Olympic medal. "No, no, no. See, you're not arguing. That means I'm officially better than you expected."

I rolled my eyes. "That bar was incredibly low."

Freya nudged my shoulder. "Just admit it, Whitmore. I impressed you."

I sighed, placing my fork down for a moment. "Fine. You can cook. Congratulations."

Freya leaned back, stretching lazily, looking far too pleased with herself. "Damn right, I can."

We ate in comfortable silence, the tension from earlier melting away. Outside, the ocean waves crashed against the shore, the night air drifting in through the open windows, carrying the scent of salt and hibiscus flowers.

After we finished, I stood up, stretching slightly. "Alright. I'm unpacking. Then I'm sleeping."

Freya groaned dramatically. "Lydia, it's, like, barely night."

"I just survived a nine-hour flight with you," I reminded her, grabbing my suitcase. "I deserve peace."

She snickered. "Fair enough."

We went to our rooms, each unpacking in our own way—me, neatly and efficiently, folding each item with precise care; Freya, haphazardly tossing things into drawers like she was preparing for a hurricane.

When I finally slipped into bed, the sheets were cool, the mattress just the right amount of firm, and for the first time in weeks, I felt my muscles relax.

Freya's voice floated through the walls, slightly muffled but still ridiculously amused.

"Hey, Whitmore?"

I sighed, already exhausted. "What?"

"You really loved the food."

I closed my eyes.

"Goodnight, Freya."