"Okay," she said, opening drawers like she was on a cooking show. "I need the mixing bowl, the wooden spatula — the one that looks like it's seen some battles — and the big non-stick pan."
Lyle moved without a word, scanning the drawers and retrieving the requested item.
"Wow," she said, peeking at him from the corner of her eye. "Look at you. Efficiency, posture, perfect knife grip — are you sure you weren't a chef in a past life?"
"I doubt it," Lyle replied, placing the utensils neatly on the counter. "But I am good at following instructions."
"Ooooh, dangerous words," Ephyra teased, wagging a finger as she poured oil into the pan. "You say that to the wrong woman and you'll be helping her alphabetize her spice rack at 3 a.m."
He chuckled — soft and unexpected. It was the kind of laugh that barely made a sound but lit up his whole face.
Ephyra caught it. Score.
