Blue regarded the fridge dispassionately. "There are three teenage boys here nearly all the time and there still isn't anything to eat."

"The only one who keeps food here all the time is Adam. I'm not convinced Gansey and Ronan do eat," Noah said. Blue stared. He shrugged. "Gansey chews mint and drinks coffee. Ronan drinks and eats pizza."

Blue snorted, utterly unsurprised. "And neither of them sleeps. It's a wonder they're even alive." She blinked hard, trying to forget that within the year, one of them wouldn't be.

Noah considered the contents of the fridge. "I could make omelettes. When I was alive." He gave her a slightly doleful, dark-eyed look. Because Noah was Noah, he was remarkably ambivalent about being dead most of the time, unless directly reminded of it. "I could try. I remember how, I think."

Deep down, Blue felt secretly pleased and more than a little touched. "You don't have to do that."

Noah was already reaching past her for the carton of eggs and block of cheese. "I don't do anything because I have to."

In keeping with the unspoken bylaws of décor at Monmouth, the stove was roughly eighty years old and served by a gas line so shoddy that Blue was convinced she'd turn on the news someday to find the building aflame. She hunted unsuccessfully for a cheese grater. "Gansey doesn't like items that only serve one purpose, he says," Noah said, his voice muffled from her position halfway in the cabinet.

Blue stood and pulled a paring knife out of the drawer, smiling at the irony of a boy who hated single purpose items yet owned a sonar scanner and a pool table. Squeezing herself into the chair by the wall, she sheared off a few slices of white cheddar and popped one into her mouth. Noah took a bowl down from the shelf above his head, cracking eggs with one hand. Blue watched him as he whisked the eggs with a fork, mentally cataloging that he had graceful, long-fingered hands. "Did you—I mean—can you play an instrument?" she asked suddenly, the words falling out of her mouth.

She saw, in profile, his eyes widen slightly. He smiled faintly, spinning the eggs into the pan on the stove. "I played the piano. My mother made me take lessons, but she let me quit when she figured out I got, um, 'sick' every recital day." He cocked his head slightly. "How did you know?"

Blue shrugged. "You have nice hands."

Noah grinned. "Wanna see a trick?" He took his eyes off the sizzling pan for a moment, catching hers. He poked the eggs experimentally with a fork, lifted the pan, and gave it a shake, swinging the half-cooked eggs in the air and catching them neatly.

A ripple of delighted laughter burst from Blue's throat, and Noah beamed, showing a dimple in one cheek. The steam clung to his fair hair in tiny crystal drops. He looks so alive, she thought, feeling vaguely shivery.

She was jolted from her thoughts as Noah slid the plate in front of her, dropped the cheese on the eggs, and folded them in half in a quick motion—indeed, the most graceful she'd seen from him. She felt a pang in her chest at his easy smile and obvious comfort. What good was cooking, she wondered, when the cook could never eat again? For he had clearly enjoyed it.

Noah leaned against the wall—Monmouth décor law dictated only one kitchen chair, apparently—and gestured vaguely at the omelette. "I'm not eating that."

Blue smiled and popped a forkful in her mouth, unable to suppress a sigh. "This is fantastic," she moaned, suddenly exceedingly grateful she hadn't used her employee discount that evening.

Noah peered at her shyly through his eyelashes. "You really like it?"

She nodded emphatically. "Seriously. Seriously. Thank you so much."

Noah smiled at the table, self-conscious at praise and aware that Blue probably didn't want him to stare at her while she ate. She set her fork down with a contented sigh, sliding her plate into the sink. Turning to face him, she impulsively stood on her toes, grasping his hands for leverage. She brushed her lips against his cool cheek, gently pressing underneath the dark smudge on his cheekbone and feeling deeply relieved to find the smudge was a memory, not a physical thing. Assured of that, she kissed him stronger, lingering there as a blush settled over her face.

He looked astonished, then so delighted he was radiant with it. She made a note of the flecks of gold in his eyes right before he pulled her tightly to his chest and kissed the top of her head.

GANSEY WHO
No, seriously, I do adore Gansey (and he's 50 shades of my type) but the Noah/Blue scenes in The Dream Thieves ruined me and I never got over it.
The title of this story has nothing to do with the rest of the story, but it is from a very good song-Light a Roman Candle With Me by Fun., which is the OTPest song to ever OTP.