"She sounds practical."
"She was. But she also knew how to let loose. Saturday nights she'd throw these dinners—whoever showed up got fed. No reservations, no menu, just whatever she felt like cooking." He rinses the towel, wrings it out. "She made it look easy. The balance."
"It probably wasn't."
"No." He hangs the towel on the hook. "But she made it look like it was. Like caring and chaos could coexist."
I pull the plug, watch the dirty water spiral down the drain. "They can. With practice."
"Is that what we're doing? Practicing?"
"I'm trying to keep you from self-destructing. You're trying not to poison anyone." I dry my hands on a clean towel. "Seems like a reasonable arrangement."
He laughs, the sound lighter now. "When you put it that way."
The kitchen is clean. Counters wiped, dishes stacked, floor swept. It looks almost peaceful, the chaos of the day settled into something manageable.
I should leave. It's late. I have seedlings to check in the morning, a workshop to prep, emails to answer.
But Rogan is leaning at the counter, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. Not flirtatious. Not defensive. Just...present.
"Thank you," he says.
"For the dishes?"
"For not giving up on me yet."
"The day's young."
"It's ten-thirty at night."
"Tomorrow's day, then." I reach for my folder, tuck it under my arm. "Fix the storage. Check the walk-in temp. And for the love of sustainable agriculture, label your containers."
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'm serious, Rogan. The critic is coming. You don't get a second chance."
His smile fades. "I know."
"Do you?" I cross my arms. "Because every time I turn around, you're improvising. Adding flourishes. Chasing the next idea instead of perfecting the last one."
"That's how I cook."
"That's how you'll fail." The words come out harsher than I mean, but I don't take them back. "Spectacle without care is just noise. Pretty plates and bold flavors won't matter if the kitchen is a disaster and the sourcing is questionable."
He straightens, jaw tight. "You think I don't care?"
"I think you care about the wrong things."
"Wow." He rubs the scar on his jaw, that tell I'm already learning to recognize. "Tell me how you really feel."
I soften slightly. "You care about the food. I can see that. The way you taste, the way you adjust, the way you talk about flavor like it's a language you're fluent in. That's real. That matters."
"But?"
"But caring about food isn't enough if you don't care about the systems that support it. The farmers who grow it. The safety standards that protect it. The trust people place in you when they eat it." I take a breath. "Your aunt understood that. She built something sustainable. Something that lasted."
"Until it didn't."
