Polly nearly jumped out of her skin. “Erzo! I didn’t hear you get up.”
“If the food’s not to your liking, why not whip up something you do enjoy?”
Polly tossed the alien vegetables into the pot, following Addy’s instructions. “Not the food. I was thinking out loud.”
“About what?” Erzo probed.
She waved a dismissive hand, not ready to share her thoughts. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“I’m fine,” Erzo insisted, though the off-green pallor of his skin betrayed his words.
Polly pointed sternly towards the living area. “Go. Sit.”
Erzo took a step closer instead. “Polly...”
“Go,” Polly repeated, firmer this time, but she could feel a smolder catch in her belly, the heat radiating upward to her chest with how her name sounded in his Charro accent.
Erzo stayed silent for a long moment, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “I appreciate your care, you know.”
“That’s sweet,” Polly said, not knowing what to do with the trace of that complex look that still lingered in his eyes. “Now plant yourself on the couch before you keel over. I’m not equipped to play space medic.”
Erzo rested a hand on her shoulder, his touch light but meaningful. “This is hardly the starry-eyed courtship I had envisioned for us.”
A bitter husk of a laugh bubbled up from her chest. “Please, courtship is like trying to nail jelly to the wall. You plan for shooting stars and end up dodging asteroids. If you plan for perfection, those perfect dates usually end up like a scene from a bad rom-com—full of awkward surprises. It’s total cosmic chaos.”
He rubbed the back of his head gingerly. “You’ve got a point there.”
“I usually do. Now, shoo! Go sit.” She waved toward the living area, where an oversized, comfy couch beckoned.
But Erzo, ever the rebel, chose a chair at the kitchen island instead. The setup was perfect for culinary spectating—one side for prep work, the other ideal for enjoying the fruits of said labor.
As Polly navigated this foreign culinary landscape, Erzo watched. “You’re adapting quite impressively to our extraterrestrial kitchen gadgets.”
Polly juggled an alien vegetable skillfully. “It’s different, all right. But half the fun is figuring out how not to set off any kitchen alarms.”
“Do you find joy in preparing food?” Erzo asked, leaning forward with genuine interest.
Polly hesitated as she seasoned the dish. “Well, I’m no Gordon Ramsay, that’s for sure.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Who?”
“Right.” Polly shrugged. “He’s a famous chef back on Earth. Considered to be one of the best. I was just saying, I’m not that good at cooking.”
Erzo gave her an odd look, as if she was questioning some basic tenet of a universally accepted life philosophy. “I didn’t ask about your skill level. I’m curious if it brings you happiness.”
She paused, spoon mid-air, and turned slightly to face him. She realized this was a first—someone genuinely asking about her happiness.
“I do like it,” she admitted. “I’ve just never been confident about it.”
“Ah,” Erzo said with a soft, encouraging smile. “Let go of those doubts. What matters is the joy it brings you.”
Polly started to voice her objection, but then fell silent. He was right.
“Back home, I was the designated ‘bring anything but food’ person at family gatherings. One culinary mishap and suddenly I’m forever branded as the kitchen pariah.”
“Was it an intentional culinary calamity? Poison, perhaps?” Erzo asked, his eyes twinkling with humor.
“No!” Polly laughed. “Just a disastrous experiment.”
