If Rogan can learn to listen.
If I can learn to let go of control long enough to let him cook.
If we can both survive each other long enough to impress a critic who could make or break everything.
I walk back toward my truck, already mentally drafting the supplier email and the food safety checklist and the schedule for the radish harvest.
Three weeks to grow them. Two weeks to plan the menu. One very slim chance that this loud, chaotic, surprisingly talented orc chef can pull off something worth protecting.
I grasp my keys, pause.
The radishes tasted good. Really good.
I hate that I'm already looking forward to the next dish.
The kitchen is quieter at ten PM.
Maya left an hour ago, waving goodbye with a promise to be back early to prep the morning pastries. Rogan should have left too. I certainly should have. But when I came back to drop off the printed supplier list and food safety checklist, I found him elbow-deep in dirty dishes, the sink overflowing with pots and pans from his experimental menu testing.
"You don't have a dishwasher?"
He looks up, surprised. "Broken. Been meaning to call someone."
"Of course it is." I set my folder down and roll up my sleeves. "Move over."
"You don't have to?—"
"I'm already here. And you're doing it wrong."
"There's a wrong way to wash dishes?"
I hip-check him aside, start reorganizing. "You soak the baking sheets first. Otherwise you're scrubbing for an hour."
He steps back, watching. "Bossy."
"Efficient." I fill the left sink with hot soapy water, the right with clean rinse water. Stack the dishes in order of difficulty. "You wash light to heavy. Glasses, plates, then pots."
"That's a lot of rules for soap and water."
"Systems exist for a reason." I hand him a towel. "You dry. I'll wash."
We fall into rhythm. I scrub, he dries. The radio on the windowsill plays something folksy and low, barely audible underthe sound of running water. Steam rises between us, softening the harsh overhead lights into something almost gentle.
"You're good at this," Rogan says after a while.
"Washing dishes?"
"Creating order." He stacks a clean plate with the others. "I make messes. You clean them up."
"Someone has to."
He laughs quietly. "Yeah. Usually it's Maya yelling at me."
I scrub at a particularly stubborn pot, the one he'd used for the caramelized onions earlier. The bottom is crusted dark brown, sticky. "This needs to soak."
"See? Systems." He leans beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. The kitchen's cooling down now, the ovens off, and the heat feels almost welcome.
I fill the pot with hot water, add a squeeze of dish soap. "Give it ten minutes."
