“That too, but mine sounds cuter.”
“It is cute.”
Her spoon stopped.
So did mine.
Ed made a quiet noise from behind the camera.
Sunny recovered first. “Careful, Flint. Compliments this close to open flame may be regulated.”
“I checked the permit.”
Her smile softened at the edges. “Good. I’d hate to be fond of a reckless man.”
My fingers tightened around the biscuit cutter.
I folded the dough scraps and cut the last biscuit. “You should keep stirring.”
“You should keep pretending that didn’t affect you.”
“It didn’t.”
“You’re cutting that biscuit like it owes you money.”
I looked down. The tin cup was still in my hand, pressed into dough that had already been cut.
Ed shifted his camera toward my table.
I lifted the cup and set it down carefully. “Technical adjustment.”
Sunny laughed, low and warm, then turned back to her griddle cakes.
Her batter hit the cast iron with a soft sizzle and spread into clean rounds.
Sunny watched the edges, not the camera. When the first cake bubbled, she waited one more breath before flipping it. The underside showed a deep golden crust, not pale, not burned.
I wanted that work rewarded.
Then I looked at my biscuits rising in the skillet, the bacon curling beside the potatoes, and the gravy starting to thicken. I still wanted to win.
My hand stopped over the sausage spoon. I flexed my fingers once, wiped them on my apron, and made myself keep cooking.
Sunny glanced up right then. Her attention held across the heat shimmer and folding shadows.
For one quiet stretch, the cameras had only silence. She looked at me, then at the prize table, then back to me, and I had to trust that both could matter.
We both looked away at the same time.
Caprice cleared her throat. “That was either very useful or very legally complicated. Ed, tell me you had focus.”
“I had focus,” Ed said. “Nobody had audio because nobody said anything.”
“That’s tragic.”
“It was my favorite part of the weekend.”
Joelle checked her watch. “Sixty-eight minutes.”
