“Yes.”
“Or because you want to make a point?”
I crack the first egg into the bowl. “Both.”
She shifts closer by half a step, just enough for me to feel the attention before I see it.
“Good.”
Her face is calm, but her eyes are alive in the way they become when something has earned them. The notebook stays closed beneath her arm. For now. That won’t last.
I add salt, beat the eggs lightly, and set the pan over low heat.
“Ask your questions,” I say.
She looks at the butter melting in the pan, then back at me.
“I thought you were going to cook.”
“I am,” I say. “You think while tasting. I want to hear it before the plate gives you somewhere to hide.”
Serena’s smile is small, sharp, and immediate.
“You’re a very arrogant man.”
“Yes,” I say, folding the eggs slowly as the butter foams around the edges.
“But today I’m also right.”
Serena watches the pan instead of my face, which is wise of her and inconvenient for me. Her notebook stays closed beneath her arm. She studies the heat, the movement, the point where I pull the eggs before they tighten.
“You pulled them early,” she says.
“I pulled them correctly,” I say.
She takes the spoon I offer and tastes. For two seconds, her face gives me nothing. Then her eyes sharpen.
“The herbs are late,” she says.
“Warmth wakes them without cooking them.”
“Yes.”
“The salt is right.”
“I know.”
She looks up at me. “You’re insufferable.”
“You keep coming back.”
“That’s not an endorsement of your personality.”
“No,” I say. “But it’s useful evidence.”
Her fingers brush mine when she hands the spoon back. Neither of us mentions it, which is becoming its own kind of lie. I move to the fish because fish punishes distraction. She stands close enough that the edge of her black skirt brushes the prep counter while I test the heat, set the skin against the pan, and wait for the exact sound that tells me the surface has taken.
When she tastes the finished plate, she does not flatter me.
