No running for Iris today. The thought shouldn't please me as much as it does.
By the time I drag myself out of my room, she's already in the living room, cross-legged on the sofa with a book in her lap and a cup of tea going cold beside her. She's wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders for once, and she looks almost human. Better than human, actually, which is a thought I have no plans to examine.
"Morning," I say.
"It's raining."
"Hence the sound of rain."
She shoots me a look—not quite a glare, but close. "I meant I can't run."
"The horror."
"You don't understand. Running is how I—" She stops, pressing her lips together. "Never mind."
I pause in the kitchen doorway. "How you what?"
"Process." The word comes out reluctantly, like she's confessing something shameful. "It's how I process things. Without it, I get..." She gestures vaguely at her head.
"Tangled up?"
"Insufferable was the word I was thinking."
"I wasn't going to say that."
"You were thinking it."
I consider this. "Maybe a little."
To my surprise, she almost smiles. It's there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it, but I don't think I did.
"I'm going to cook," I announce. "Something complicated. Something that takes all day. You're welcome to help or stay out of my way—either works."
"What are you making?"
"Bouillabaisse."
Her eyebrows rise. "That sounds ambitious."
"That's rather the point."
The kitchen becomesmy kingdom when I cook. I don't mean that metaphorically—I mean I physically take over every surface, spreading ingredients and tools across the counters like a general deploying troops. Grand-mère used to call it my "controlled chaos." Mum just called it messy.
Iris hovers in the doorway for a while, watching me prep vegetables with an expression caught between curiosity and discomfort. She needs a task, but she doesn't know the language of this kitchen.
"You could slice the fennel," I offer without looking up.
"I don't know how."
"I'll show you."
She crosses to the counter, standing close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something clean and expensive. I hand her a knife and position the fennel bulb on the cutting board.
"Core it first—see this hard bit? Cut that out. Then slice thin, about this thick." I demonstrate with my hands. "It doesn't have to be perfect."
"Everything has to be perfect," she mutters, but she picks up the knife.
Her first attempts are uneven, which clearly bothers her more than it should. I resist the urge to correct her and focus on my own prep—the fish, the tomatoes, the careful layering of saffron and orange peel that gives bouillabaisse its distinctive flavor.
