Not dramatically, not crashing to the floor in a spectacular disaster, just a subtle, treacherous slide in my grip as the tremor in my right hand decided that today, of all days, it would remind me who was really in charge. The wooden spoon clattered against the stainless steel rim like a frantic heartbeat, and tomato sauce sloshed dangerously close to the edge.
"Easy there, chef," Charlotte said from behind me, and before I could snap back with something I'd regret, her arms were sliding around my waist, then coming up to cover mine on the spoon handle. "I've got you."
Her warmth pressed against my back. Her fingers, steady and sure, wrapped around my trembling ones without trying to take over, just supporting, anchoring, the way she'd learned to do over the past six months of marriage.
"I had it," I said, though we both knew I didn't.
"Of course you did." Her chin hooked over my shoulder, her cheek brushing mine. "You were just giving the sauce a little extra... excitement."
"That’s one word for it."
"Chaos is another. But I married you knowing you were chaotic in the kitchen."
I laughed despite myself, a rough, surprised sound that cut through the frustration that had been building all afternoon. Dr. Patel had adjusted my medication three days ago, and my body was staging a full revolt.
The usual fine tremor had escalated into something more insistent, more visible, more humiliating. Simple tasks had become small battles. Holding a coffee cup. Buttoning my shirt. Stirring a pot of sauce without dropping half of it.
"Together?" Charlotte murmured against my ear.
"Together," I agreed.
We stirred in tandem, her steady hands guiding my shaking ones in slow, careful circles. It was clumsy. It was ridiculous. It was also, somehow, one of the most intimate moments of my week, her body curved around mine, our breath synchronizing, the simple act of making dinner transformed into something shared.
"You know," she said, "this is basically a cooking show for masochists."
"'Tremor Kitchen.' We'd get great ratings."
"Sponsored by paper towels and patience."
On the next rotation, a generous dollop of sauce leaped from the pot and landed with a soft plop on the stovetop. We both stared at it for a beat.
Then Charlotte snorted.
The sound was so undignified, so perfectly her, that it loosened every stiff muscle on my body. I started laughing too, really laughing, the kind that shook my shoulders and made my eyes sting.
"We're disasters," I managed.
"We're works in progress," she corrected, pressing a kiss to my cheek. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Absolutely. Disasters don't get to eat delicious pasta afterward."
She released me slowly, letting me find my balance before stepping away to grab a dish towel. I watched her wipe up the spilled sauce with efficient movements, her honey-brown hair escaping its ponytail, a smudge of red on her wrist that she hadn't noticed yet.
God, she was beautiful. Not in an untouchable, magazine-cover way, but in the way that mattered, the way that made me want to cross the kitchen and kiss her until we both forgot about dinner entirely.
"You're staring," she said without looking up.
"You have sauce on your arm."
"And you have sauce on your shirt, your chin, and somehow your left ear." She finally glanced at me, her green eyes dancing. "We're a matched set."
"A very distinguished matched set."
"The most distinguished." She tossed the towel aside and moved back into my space, reaching up to wipe the sauce from my chin with her thumb. The gesture was casual, intimate, the kind of touch that came from months of learning each other's rhythms. "How are you feeling? Really?"
I considered lying. Considered saying I was fine, that the medication adjustment was no big deal, that I wasn't frustrated and exhausted and quietly furious at my own body.
