The kitchen was too small for two people who clearly had no idea what they were doing. Smoke clung to the rafters, thick enough to sting the eyes, and the heat from the stove pressed heavy against my skin.
The soup in the pot bubbled and hissed, letting out smells both good and questionable, like a tavern meal halfway between genius and disaster.
Freya stood at the counter, sleeves rolled, hands buried in a mound of flour that looked like it had exploded on her rather than stayed where it belonged.
Her pale hair had loose strands clinging to her face, and her usually perfect posture had a stiff tension to it. She pressed her palms into the dough, slow and careful, as though the bread might strike back if she moved too quickly.
I leaned against the counter with the long spoon, pretending to supervise the bubbling pot. "You know," I said, voice cheerful, "you look almost beautiful like that."
