The instructor claps her hands, gathering everyone's attention.
"Alright, couples! Today we're making chocolate soufflés, a classic romantic dessert. The key is patience, precision, and teamwork." She beams at us. "This is all about working together. Communication. Trust. All the things that make relationships work."
Isla makes a sound that might be a laugh or a groan. I can't tell which.
"First step," the instructor continues, "separate your eggs. Who wants to do that?"
Everyone looks at their partners. Isla looks at me.
"Have you ever separated an egg?"
"Theoretically, I understand the concept."
"That's a no." She pulls the carton of eggs toward her. "Watch and learn."
She cracks an egg with one hand, smooth, efficient and separates the yolk from the white by passing it between the shell halves. The white drops into one bowl, the yolk into another. Perfect.
"Your turn," she says, handing me an egg.
I take it carefully. Crack it the way she did. The entire thing splats into the bowl, yolk and white mixed together.
"That's... not right," I observe.
"No. It's not." But she's fighting a smile. I can see it in the corner of her mouth. "Try again. Gentler this time. The shell is fragile."
"Like relationships?" I'm quoting the instructor, trying for humor.
"Like eggs. Focus, Thornhill."
I try again. This time, I manage to crack it cleanly, but when I try to separate them, the yolk breaks. Yellow mixes with white. Another failure.
"I'm terrible at this."
"You're learning. That's different." She's moved closer, standing right next to me now to demonstrate again. "Look. Confident crack, then rock it gently. The yolk is stronger than you think. It can handle the transfer."
Her hand guides mine through the motion. Her fingers are warm against mine, sure and steady. This close, I can smell her shampoo, something floral and cheap and somehow perfect.
"Like this," she murmurs.
We crack the egg together. Separate it together. This time, it works.
"See?" She steps back, and I immediately miss her proximity. "You just needed practice."
We continue through the recipe. Isla reads the instructions, I follow her lead. She whisks the egg whites while I measure chocolate. I melt butter while she sifts flour. It's surprisingly... nice. Working together. Creating something.
"You're not bad at taking direction," she observes after I successfully fold egg whites into the chocolate mixture without deflating them too much.
"I'm excellent at taking direction. I'm a Thornhill. We're trained from birth to follow expectations."
"That's depressing."
"It's efficient."
"It's sad." She checks the consistency of our mixture. "When do you get to do what you want?"
Never. The answer is never. But I don't say that.
"What about you?" I deflect. "When do you get to do what you want?"
