She slices the meat into thick medallions—precise, even. No hesitation.
In a shallow pan, butter melts slowly with crushed garlic and a strip of lemon zest. It doesn’t sizzle. It barely shimmers.
She lowers the lobster into the butter like she’s placing something fragile into water.
Gentle. Controlled.
No rushing.
I swallow.
She’s not flustered anymore. Not spiraling. She recalibrated and now she’s executing.
Competence looks good on her.
"You're really good at this," I say quietly.
"At cooking?"
"At everything."
She looks up. Meets my eyes.
The kitchen shrinks. The air thickens.
Then her phone buzzes.
She breaks eye contact. Checks the screen.
"They're five minutes out."
"Then let's finish this diplomatic lobster."
"Boston-inspired diplomatic lobster."
"Noted."
She's assembling now. Butter-poached chunks arranged over toasted bread rounds. The herbed Ritz crumb topping—golden, fragrant, impossibly appetizing. A sprinkle of smoked paprika. A scatter of fresh chive.
It looks like something from a food magazine. It smells like home—someone's home, the kind with family dinners and arguments about sports and laughter that rattles the windows.
The kind of home I want to build.
She sets the finished dish on the counter. Steps back.
"There. Boston-Inspired Butter-Poached Caribbean Lobster with Herbed Ritz Crumbs. Take that, island."
"The bridesmaids are going to lose their minds."
"They better. I just MacGyvered an entire regional identity."
Her phone buzzes again.
"They're here."
"Then let's go feed them diplomatic lobster and blow their minds."
She grabs the dish. Heads for the terrace.
