The utensils came next. There was a separate drawer for them, everything from spatulas to balloon whisks organized neatly. I grabbed a wooden spoon, and it fit comfortably in my hand.
Setting everything on the counter, I took a moment to admire the layout. It was like a well-orchestrated symphony, every item having its place, ready for the performance.
Now the stage was set, all waiting for the main actors.
Hiro emerged with the cloth bag full of banana bread ingredients. A curious smile spread across his face. "What kind of music do you listen to?"
"Everything. But when I cook? Reggae. Or old-school R&B. Something with soul."
"I like reggae." He set the bag on the counter. The exhaustion in his eyes seemed to lift.
As I began preparing everything, I noticed Hiro continued to stand and watched me move around the kitchen, not sitting despite the fact that he'd been sleeping in a chair moments ago.
I quirked my brows. "Do you want to help me cook?"
He blinked. "I don't know how to cook."
"You know how to cook anything?”
“Nothing?”
“No way."
"Never learned."
I put my hands on my hips. "Oh, no. You gotta come over here. My new buddy needs to know how to make one or two dishes for himself."
He chuckled as he walked over—this huge, dangerous man suddenly seeming like a kid about to learn something new.
It made me think he was kind of cute.
"We're going to make a side of potatoes with the Eggs Benedict," I pulled the bag of russet potatoes over. "We’re doing this because I like to dip the potatoes in the poached egg and the hollandaise sauce. It's just so delicious that way."
I set a cutting board in front of him and placed a potato on it. "So. Since you're so good with a knife, why don't you cut these potatoes?"
I demonstrated—showing him how to hold the knife properly, where to place his other hand, how to create even cuts. "This is how you do it. See? Firm grip, fingers curled under. Smooth motion."
He watched intently.
“Now you try.” I gave him a new potato and the knife.
He attempted.
His first cut was uneven. “Fuck.”
"That's okay. Try again. Let the weight of the knife do the work."
He adjusted, and the next cut was better.
"There you go! Now keep that rhythm." I talked him through it, and he listened like I was teaching him strategy for war instead of basic cooking.
Minutes later, the guard returned with a small speaker device. "I was told that there are different stations on the device’s app."
"Is there a reggae station?"
"I believe so.”
“Perfect. Can you hook it up for me?"
