“I also have a routine,” Isis kept going, counting on her fingers. “Hair, face, body scrub, shave—”
"Pick two,” Bryce advised, his tone carrying a harsh finality. "Like I said, this ain’t a spa; this is survival. Seven minutes from water on to water off. The water tank only holds so much. If you wanna stand in the shower and reflect on life, you can do thatdry.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Better get familiar with bird baths.”
Isis rolled her eyes. “I can’t take a bath with a bird! I have allergies!”
“She’s right, though. That’s not enough time, dawg,” Adrian complained. “What if I gotta—”
“If you ain’t done in seven minutes, I’m unplugging the tank, handing you a bucket, and wishing you the best. You can warm your own damn water with a lighter and faith.”
Bryce moved on, flipping a page in his makeshift rulebook like a preacher at a pulpit, ready to dispense wisdom at Bible study.
“Rule number two… Light Patrol is real. If you leave a light on in an empty room, you owe ten push-ups or dish duty. Your choice.”
Isis glanced down at her manicured nails, her face twisting into a dramatic pout. “I can’t do either. I’ve got press-ons… and slight carpal tunnel.”
“That’s fine. You can just sit on the couch like a Victorian widow and dramatically starve while everybody else eats, ‘cause you won’t be touching a plate until your light bill is cleared.”
“This is jail!” she whined, crossing her arms.
“No,” Bryce corrected calmly, “This is freedom with rulesandconsequences. Now, moving on. Rule number three… we eat what we cook. No new meals. Every time we cook, that’s thestove, oven, microwave, lights, fan… all of it. We’re not about to be in here acting like a restaurant, making four different meals ‘cause everybody is picky. Nobody’s getting special snowflake meals.Also, you get one warm-up session per meal. That’s it. That food lived a good life, and you had your chance. If you still want more that day, you’d better act like your granny and eat it cold.”
Isis twisted her face up in disgust. “Eww!” she gagged. “Who eats cold chili?”
“People who don’t wanna freeze to death,” I shot back.
Before Isis could respond with another remark, Adrian chimed in, “Well, can we all just vote that Chesteria doesallof the cooking? 'Cause no offense, but last time Isis touched a stove, we unlocked a new level of ‘burnt’. Hell, the fire alarm probably called 911by itself.”
For once—and probably out of sheer survival instinct—Bryce agreed. “I second that.”
“Excuse y’all?!” Isis shrieked in offense.
Adrian grinned. “Girl, you burnt toast in a toaster oven. That’s talentless. If you make anything in this cabin, I’m fasting in protest.” He exaggerated his gesture, placing a hand on his chest as if the mere thought of her cooking was a personal affront.
“I was distracted!” Isis tried to recover.
"By what?" I messily intervened, unable to resist. “Your reflection?”
Adrian shook his head, laughing. “Man, if you whip upanythingelse in here, I’m not just fasting; I’m filing a complaint with God.”
The lighthearted jab only fueled Isis’s irritation.
“Final vote... Chesteria gets first dibs on the stove. Everyone else, try not to burn the damn place down. If you do? You cook outside… on a rock… with shame," Bryce stated.
“Look, I don’t mind cooking, but I ain’t doing three meals a day for three other grown people,” I made thatrealclear. “If y’all were my husband and kids... different story.”
Bryce looked at me like he was visualizing the whole damn fantasy of me being barefoot in the kitchen, wearing his hoodie, cooking, while pregnantwitha toddler on my hip and having an attitude.
If I’m being honest, part of my motivation behind the comment was to gauge his reaction. Watching his expression shift from amusement to a heated admiration was exhilarating. The other reason? I wasn’t about to be up in there, catering to Isis and Adrian like they had me on payroll. Bryce, though? Oh, he could’ve gotten a hot breakfast on a real plate with his grits whipped with love, bacon curled just right, and eggs scrambled in coconut oil like his cholesterol mattered to me. For lunch? A foil-wrapped delight that kept in the warmth, complete with a love note tucked inside that read “Hurry home. I miss your mouth,” with his name written elegantly in cursive on the napkin. Dinner would be the grand affair—served hot, dining under soft lighting with slow music playing in the background, and me in nothing but high heels, a chic apron, and intentions that I didn’t feel like hiding, all while wearing his favorite scent.
“I’ll doonebig one. So y’all better decide if y’all want a real dinner or a struggle breakfast. Ain’t no in between," I stated definitively, reclaiming my role as the cabin’s culinary queen.
Bryce nodded. “One big meal. Choose wisely.”
Adrian, ever the dramatist, lifted a finger. “I volunteer as tribute for thelunchstruggle.”
Isis rolled her eyes, still simmering in frustration. “Y’all act like I tried to kill y’all on purpose!”
