chiaroscuro extras

his birthday

—————

"Would y'mind tasting this for me, m'love?"

(Y/N) happily nodded her head from where she sat on the kitchen island. Harry was busy making dinner for the night, requesting she stay with him instead of it being a surprise like usual. He turned to her, spoon in hand with a pearl of béchamel sauce on the bowl of the utensil. He looked to her with adoring eyes as she acted as his taste tester, a cool hand placed on her thigh as he stood between them.

"What do y'think, hm?" he prompted, squeezing his fingers around the thick of her thigh in a teasing pinch.  "Like Paulina's yet?"

(Y/N) smiled at the name of the little Sicilian woman that had made it her business having (Y/N) try every dish in her repertoire when they were visiting Italy, even off-the-menu items. (Y/N)'s favorite had become the white lasagna Paulina had made for her on their last visit. When Harry had asked how exactly she made it, he was given vague answers with no precise measurements or exact directions just that it was supposed to taste like this and smell like that when finished.

Tonight was his formal attempt at recreating the dish, leaves of spinach sautéing beside the cheesy béchamel simmering away and homemade noodles resting on the counter. Sliced mushrooms toasted in garlic were waiting in a bowl off to the side, with a container of toasted pine nuts beside it. Just from the smell, it seemed he would succeed.

(Y/N) pulled back, wrapping her fingers around the wrist of his hand holding the spoon. She smiled up at him, finding him looking at her with his chin tipped upwards and a small curve in his lips. "Almost," she answered simply, teasing to see his reaction. He'd become fairly cocky when it came to his cooking, and despite the fact his sauce was exactly like Ms. Paulinas—if not, better—she wanted to playfully bait him a bit.

He didn't seem to fall for it as he only raised his brows and his smile widened on his lips. He gave her another squeeze to her thigh before turning back to the stove, stirring through the thickening béchamel. He looked to her over his shoulder, his composure set as his chin grazed the laced neckline of his blouse. "Only almost?" he pressed, "You know I can tell when you are lying, right?"

"I'm not lying! There just needs to be a little something more, that's all." She had to fight off a pending laugh, knowing that if she let even a breath of it escape, she would be caught. Harry knew she struggled to keep a straight face when playing with him like this.

Harry kept his smile up, nodding his head as if he bought her story. "'S not what your heartbeat is telling me. Flutters every time y'try to trick me—just like it is right now."

"That's not fair, you always know when I'm trying to play with you!" A defeated pout puffed out her lips and dropped her shoulders, her legs continuing to swing in front of the cabinets.

"I've never said y'can't play with me, as you put it, jus' that y'need to get better at it." He began assembling the beginnings of the lasagna, laying the noodles flat and spooning the sauce overtop as he continued. "I have lived a long life, m'petal, you've got to try harder than that."

"How could I forget, old man" she teased, earning a huff of a laugh from him. She scooted to the edge of the counter, her hands coming to wrap around the ledge as she continued kicking her legs behind him. "How old are you anyway, H?"

He gently shook his head, the full of his cheeks widened around his smile. "I've told you before, petal, I lost count centuries ago. Last time I celebrated was for m'three-hundredth and sixty-something birthday."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened at the number, often forgetting just how vast of an existence he'd experienced. "When was that?"

Harry hummed for a moment, spreading a layer of warmed spinach over a ladling of the cheese sauce. "Cromwell had just begun his rule over the British Isles, and if I remember correctly, that would have been sometime in the sixteen-fifties."