I nod, focused on her hand, the way it fits so easily in mine. “Burns don’t just stop hurting once you cool them down. They pulse under the skin. Sometimes for hours.”
She’s watching me now.
Not with teasing amusement.
Not with that sharp, challenging look she usually wears.
Just watching.
Like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect.
I clear my throat, finishing the last pass of oil over her skin. Then, I guide her hand under the cold water, rinsing the mixture off. “You’ll be fine. If it pains you at all, we’ll get another dollop of DMSO on it. Just don’t?—”
“Stick my hand directly on a hot tray again?”
I sigh. “Yeah.”
She grins. “Can’t make any promises.”
I grab a plate of cake she left on the counter, shove it into her free hand, and grumble, “...Eat your damn cake.”
She blinks.
Then—to my absolute horror—she starts laughing.
It’s not a mocking laugh. It’s worse.
It’s warm.
Like she thinks I’m something good.
And gods help me—I want to hear that sound again.
“You’re kind of sweet when you’re worried,” she says, and my entire body goes rigid.
“I’m not worried,” I lie. “I just don’t want you messing up your hands before the competition. We’ve put too much work into this display.”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Uh-huh.”
“Eat your cake,” I repeat, turning away to hide whatever my face might be revealing.
“You can have some too, you know,” she says, voice still colored with amusement. “I made it for us to share.”
I glance at the cake. It’s a simple yellow cake with what looks like purple frosting. Ube, probably. She’s been experimenting with Filipino flavors for the competition all week.
Against my better judgment, I take the fork she offers.
“Just a taste,” I mutter.
Her smile is triumphant.
The cake is...perfect. Of course it is. Moist without being soggy, with a delicate crumb and just the right amount of sweetness. The frosting is smooth and rich, with that distinctive earthy sweetness that ube has.
I try not to make a sound, but she must see something in my expression because she beams.
“Good, right?”
I shrug, non-committal. “It’s acceptable.”
