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The ground beef hissed the moment it hit the pan.
Harry stared at it.
Then frowned.
Then leaned closer with deep suspicion.
“There is absolutely no way,” he muttered, poking at the meat with his wooden spoon, “that beef is supposed to weep.”
A flood of pale liquid spread across the skillet. The meat wasn’t browning properly at all. It was… boiling. Gray and soft and vaguely tragic.
The recipe book propped near the stove had promised this would be easy.
Tacos are simple, Harry.
That had been Jacob’s betrayal of a statement earlier that week.
Harry had wanted tonight to be nice. Properly nice. Jasper had been gone for several days helping Carlisle with something involving Seattle and a newborn coven dispute Harry had deliberately stopped listening to halfway through because vampire politics gave him a headache.
So Harry had planned dinner.
Candles. Music. Warm tortillas. Homemade salsa. Lime rice. The whole thing.
Well.
The whole thing for himself, technically.
Jasper didn’t actually eat human food. Not really. Vampire venom destroyed most things immediately and Carlisle claimed the experience ranged from “unpleasant” to “deeply regrettable.” Jasper had once swallowed half a blueberry muffin because Harry looked so hopeful and then spent the next hour dramatically miserable on the couch while Harry laughed himself breathless.
So over time, cooking had become something different between them.
Harry cooked.
Jasper watched, smelled, hovered, stole kisses, and treated the entire process like Harry was performing fine art.
Apparently vampires experienced scent with absurd intensity. Jasper insisted garlic browning in butter was “beautiful.” Fresh bread nearly rendered him nonverbal. Cinnamon rolls had once resulted in him following Harry around the kitchen looking outright enchanted.
So yes. Romantic dinner.
For one.
And now the meat looked like it was dying a second death in the frying pan.
“This country is absurd,” Harry informed the stove.
He turned the heat down. Then up. Then down again.
More liquid appeared.
Harry’s eyes narrowed.
Back in Britain, the mince Petunia sent him to buy had always been from the butcher. Lean, proper beef that browned almost immediately. Even after the war, once he’d been living on his own, he’d bought from small local shops whenever he could afford it. Good cuts. Fresh meat.
This—
He poked it again.
—this seemed personally insulting.
The front door opened downstairs.
Harry jumped, nearly dropping the spoon. “Don’t come up!” he shouted immediately.
A pause.
“…I wasn’t going to?” Jasper called back carefully.
“You ruin surprises by existing near them!”
Another pause.
“I’ll be downstairs then.”
Harry heard the amused smile in Jasper’s voice and relaxed slightly before glaring back at the pan.
The liquid had somehow multiplied.
“What in the bloody hell…”
Finally, frustrated, Harry snatched up his phone and started searching.
why is american ground beef watery
An alarming number of results appeared instantly.
Harry read through several with growing horror.
Higher fat content… retained water… lower quality processing…
“Oh thank God,” he whispered.
It wasn’t him.
He wasn’t catastrophically failing at tacos.
Apparently this was normal.
Well. “Normal.”
Harry exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair as the panic loosened its grip. Right. Fine then. Adapt.
He could adapt.
He had survived the Dursleys, Voldemort, and Dolores Umbridge. He could survive disappointing beef.
Harry turned the heat up slightly and spread the meat flatter across the pan like one article suggested. More steam rose. Slowly, finally, actual browning began to happen beneath the gray.
“There you are,” he muttered approvingly.
He drained off some of the excess liquid, added garlic and onion, then his spice mixture. The smell improved immediately—warm cumin, chili powder, paprika.
Much better.
A soft sound drifted from downstairs.
Harry paused.
“…Jasper?”
“You added the garlic,” Jasper called up dreamily.
Harry snorted.
By the time Jasper wandered upstairs an hour later, the kitchen glowed gold with candlelight. Soft music played from Harry’s phone near the sink. Bowls of toppings covered the table.
And Harry stood at the stove, brow furrowed in concentration as he pressed another tortilla into the pan.
Jasper stopped in the doorway like he’d walked into church.
Harry looked up. “You were supposed to wait downstairs.”
“I was invited by the smell.”
“That’s fair.”
Jasper moved closer, quiet as snowfall, and slipped his arms around Harry’s waist from behind. His chin rested lightly on Harry’s shoulder as he looked toward the stove.
“You fried the tortillas.”
“Yes.”
“You made rice too.”
“Yes.”
“And salsa from scratch.”
Harry huffed. “Store salsa tastes sad.”
A soft laugh brushed against his neck.
Then Jasper went still for a moment, undoubtedly taking in every detail of the kitchen with vampire senses.
“You were stressed,” he said gently.
Harry sighed dramatically. “Your country sells suspicious beef.”
Jasper blinked.
“That does explain remarkably little.”
“It released enough liquid to drown a small village.”
Understanding dawned almost immediately, followed by obvious amusement.
“Oh,” Jasper said. “You bought the cheap supermarket kind.”
“I didn’t know there was a cheap supermarket kind.”
Jasper finally laughed outright, low and warm and beautiful.
Harry pointed his spatula at him accusingly. “Mock me all you like. I adapted.”
“You did.”
“And before you say anything, I know it’s ridiculous making a romantic dinner you can’t even eat.”
Jasper’s arms tightened slightly around him.
“Harry,” he said softly, “I can smell the lime, the char on the tortillas, the garlic, the cilantro, the spices in the beef, and the way the onions sweetened while they cooked.”
Harry blinked.
Jasper kissed just below his ear.
“You made the entire house smell like something warm and alive and yours.”
Harry suddenly found himself unable to speak.
Jasper smiled against his skin.
“That’s incredibly romantic.”
The tortilla in the pan started to burn.
Harry cursed.
Jasper laughed harder.