“I can make informed assumptions and the rest time will tell,” I say.
He shoots me a look with these blue eyes that should come with a license. “See. That. That is antagonising.”
“I’m clarifying the timeline.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. It softens him, changes the lines of his face. I notice and immediately resent my own noticing.
“Garlic goes in cold,” he continues. “Always.”
“That’s controversial,” I say. “Half the internet would like a word.”
“Half the internet can ruin their own dinner,” he replies. “You warm it slowly, you let it infuse, not burn. Burnt garlic is bitterness pretending to be depth.”
I hum. “I might quote that.”
“You will not,” he says.
“I absolutely will.”
He glances at me. “Do you always have to have the last word.”
“What? I’m just enjoying your competence,” I reply. “It’s attractive… in a sort of professional way.”
The words land heavier than I intend. He stills for half a beat, then resumes slicing as if nothing happened.
“Dangerous game you are playing,” he says. “That sounded nearly like a compliment.”
“But not quite,” I say. “I’d never let you get comfortable.”
He snorts. “Good. Comfort breeds mistakes.”
“And watery sauces,” I add.
He looks up then, eyes bright, sharp, amused rather than offended. “You’re poking the bear.”
“I’m assessing the bear,” I correct. “Important distinction.”
“Well,” he says, tipping tomatoes into the pan, “the bear is perfectly capable of defending himself.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed,” I say.
The sauce begins to come together, scent blooming, the kitchen around us fading slightly as my attention narrows. He tastes. Adjusts. Tastes again.
“No sugar,” he says. “Ever.”
“Not even a pinch.”
“No.”
“What if the tomatoes are acidic.”
“Then you chose the wrong tomatoes.”
I smile. “Stubborn.”
“Principled.”
“Terrifying at dinner parties.”
