I have to remember that. No matter how much I want her, no matter how many almost-kisses we have, I can’t push. She needs to come to me on her own terms, in her own time. If she ever does at all.
She comes back inside carrying a platter of perfectly grilled galbi, the meat glistening with caramelized marinade. The smell is glorious—sweet and savory with hints of garlic and sesame.
“That looks amazing,” I say, setting down the knife.
“Thanks.” She sets the platter on the counter and starts pulling out bowls and small plates. “Can you grab me a pan for the vegetables? They just need to be sautéed quickly with some garlic and sesame oil.”
“On it.”
I pull out a pan and Kiera heats it and adds oil, then tosses in the vegetables I chopped. Then she spoons out the rice and arranges the galbi on serving plates. I go along behind her, rinsing off dishes and putting them in the sink. We move around each other carefully, like dancers who are still learning the choreography, making sure not to bump or touch.
The vegetables sizzle in the pan, and she stirs them, adding minced garlic and a drizzle of sesame oil. The smell that rises up is mouth-watering.
My phone rings in my pocket.
I pull it out and see my mother’s name on the screen again. Guilt flashes through me—I ignored her call earlier on the staircase. I should probably answer.
But if I answer now, I’ll miss this moment with Kiera. This careful dance we’re doing in the kitchen, this quiet domesticity that feels quite intimate somehow.
I decline the call and shove the phone back in my pocket.
“You can answer if you need to,” Kiera says, not looking at me as she finishes with the vegetables.
“It’s fine. I’ll call back later.”
She glances at me, and there’s something knowing in her expression. Like she understands exactly why I’m not taking the call.
Kiera finishes arranging everything, and then we carry it all to the dining room. The galbi is as good as it smells. The meat is tender and perfectly cooked, the marinade adding layers of flavor—sweet from the brown sugar, savory from the soy sauce, with hints of ginger and garlic that make everything sing. I close my eyes on the first bite, savoring it.
“Kiera.” I open my eyes and look at her across the table. “This is perfect. Like, restaurant-quality perfect. You should be proud of this.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “It’s just marinated beef.”
“It’s notjustanything. This is the kind of dish that would win competitions.” I take another bite, letting the flavors develop on my tongue. “Speaking of which, tell me more about this scholarship competition. What’s the format?”
She sets down her chopsticks, and I can see her mentally shifting into planning mode. “It’s called The Future Chef Challenge. One day, but it’s intense. We have to prepare three courses—appetizer, main, and dessert—in four hours.”
“Four hours total? That’s tight.”
“Yeah. And there are all these requirements.” She counts them off on her fingers. “Each course has to feature a mystery ingredient that they reveal that morning. We have to demonstrate at least one advanced technique per course. One course has to showcase a non-American, non-European cuisine. And one course has to be adaptable for a common dietary restriction.”
I whistle low. “That’s a lot to juggle.”
“I know.” She picks at her rice. “The mystery ingredient is what really scares me. I’m good at following recipes, atplanning things out. But making something up on the spot with an ingredient I might not have worked with before? That’s terrifying.”
An idea sparks. “What if I give you a mystery ingredient every day?”
She looks up sharply. “What?”
“When you come over to cook. What if I choose one ingredient—something you have to incorporate into the meal—and don’t tell you until you get here?” I lean forward, warming to the idea. “That way you can practice the skill of adapting on the fly. Building confidence with improvisation.”
Her eyes widen, and I can see her brain already working through the possibilities. “That’s... actually that’s a really good idea.”
“We could start easy. Common ingredients that can go in lots of dishes. Then gradually make it harder as you get more comfortable.”
“And I’d still have access to everything else in your ridiculous fancy kitchen,” she adds, a small smile playing at her lips. “So it’s not like I’d be completely limited.”
“Exactly. You’d be building the muscle of creative problem-solving.” I take another bite of galbi. “Plus, it might be fun. For both of us.”
