“First, we need to sear the meat,” I say, reaching for a cast iron pan and placing it on the stove. “Grab the olive oil.”
Valentina rummages through the pantry, pulling out the oil with a flourish. “Your wish is my command.”
“Try not to spill it everywhere,” I mutter, pouring a thin layer into the pan.
She smirks. “You’re so uptight. Relax.”
The steak sizzles as I lay it in the pan, and the aroma fills the air almost immediately. Valentina stands beside me, leaning a little too close as she watches the meat brown.
“You’re crowding me,” I say, nudging her with my elbow.
“Am I?” she teases, not moving an inch. “I’m just trying to learn from the expert.”
“You run a kitchen too, Val. Don’t act like you’ve never browned a steak before.”
“True,” she admits, grinning. “But it’s more fun when you do it.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.
As the steak sears, we chop the vegetables together. Valentina slices an onion with quick, confident movements, while I tackle the bell peppers.
“Your knife skills are impressive,” she says, glancing at my precise cuts.
“Thanks,” I reply, focusing on the rhythm of the chopping. “It’s called practice.”
“Or obsessive perfectionism,” she quips, and I glare at her.
“Do you always have to get under my skin?” I ask.
“Only because you make it so easy,” she replies, her grin widening.
I shake my head, unable to suppress a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
Once the vegetables are prepped, we remove the steak from the pan and set it aside. I toss the onions and peppers into the same pan, stirring them as they soften and release their aroma. We add garlic, tomatoes, and spices to the pan, the rich aroma building layer by layer. The chaos of cooking grows around us—used utensils, spilled spices, and vegetable scraps scattered across the counters. I feel the familiar urge to stop and clean, but Valentina’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Leave it,” she says softly, noticing my hesitation.
“But it’s a mess—”
“Let it be,” she insists. “Sit down for a minute.”
Reluctantly, I sit on the counter beside her, the clutter surrounding us. I glance at the chaos, my chest tightening, but when I look at Valentina, her calm presence steadies me.
“It’s just a mess, Isa,” she says gently. “Not the end of the world.”
I take a deep breath and lean back, letting myself be still for a moment. The kitchen feels alive, the chaos humming around us, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels…peaceful.
When the dish is finally done, we plate it carefully. The shredded beef is tender and coated in the flavorful sauce, the vibrant colors of the peppers and tomatoes making it look as good as it smells.
As we step back to admire our work, Luciano enters the kitchen. His presence immediately fills the space, his confident stride a stark contrast to the messy kitchen and our slightly disheveled appearances.
“What’s this?” he asks, his eyes lighting up as he sees the dish.
“Ropa vieja,” I say, handing him a fork. “We thought you might like to try something new.”
He takes a bite, his expression shifting to one of pure delight. “This is incredible,” he says, savoring the flavors. “The depth of the seasoning, the tenderness of the beef—it’s exactly what I look for in a dish. The two of you make quite the team.”
I glance at Valentina, who gives me a small, knowing smile. My heart flutters, but I quickly look away, trying to focus on Luciano’s reaction.
