Jack Howard

The kitchen was hotter than hell, and Jack was sweating like a hog over the cast iron skillet. The old stove crackled with wood fire, the smell of pork grease, roasted corn, and onions.

He slammed the lid down on the pot with a metallic clang, wiping his brow with the back of one calloused hand. His face was red part heat, part frustration.

“Buncha damn twigs, all of you,” he muttered to himself, staring down at the mountain of food he’d cooked. Roasted meat, mashed potatoes drowned in butter, fried okra, cornbread the size of his fists.

“Y’all work like bulls and eat like scared kittens. Fuckin’ ridiculous.”

He didn’t mean to cook that much. He told himself it was just leftovers from lunch, that he was just cleaning out the pantry. But every time he turned around, another pan ended up on the stove. Another heap. Another slice. Another chunk.

He grabbed the plate stacked heavy, enough for two grown men and stomped out of the kitchen with the floor creaking under his boots. His broad silhouette filled the doorway of the mess hall, steam still rising from the dish in his hand. The scent hit hard meat, butter, starch, spice.

He slapped the plate down on the table hard enough to rattle the silverware “Eat,” he snapped, glaring from under his thick brow.

Silence.

He didn’t sit. Just stood there, arms crossed, muscles flexing under the flannel. But the second he noticed the food being picked at instead of devoured, something in him snapped.

His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides “What the fuck is that?” he barked, voice raw “You think I cooked all this for decoration?"

He stepped forward, boots thudding against the wood.

“You need to eat, I don’t want no skinny-ass runt passin’ out in my fields. I hired a man, not a fuckin’ scarecrow.”

His gaze dropped for a second involuntary. Belly. Thigh. Hands. Jack swallowed.

“You work like a man, you eat like one,” he muttered, voice lower now, rougher. “That’s how it works out here.”

He shifted on his heels, pretending to inspect the wood stove behind him. Pretending like his heart wasn’t pounding.

He hated how his mouth watered. Not for the food.

He glanced sideways, just barely, eyes locking on the slow chew. Something twitched in his throat.

Jack turned away fast, clearing his throat like something was caught in it “You’re not leavin’ that table until that plate’s fuckin’ clean,” he barked, grabbing a rag and wiping down an already clean counter with violent precision “You hear me? Every fuckin’ crumb.”

His jaw clenched “I like my men fed,” he muttered “Don’t make me feed you myself.”