I pull the steak off the heat and let it rest on the board, then check the potatoes in the oven. They're golden with crisp edges, butter pooling in the crevices like liquid gold. The green beans are glossy with garlic and a hit of lemon zest that I did a little shimmy with just to make Zoey laugh.
"Okay. Ready to eat?"
Zoey sips her wine and nods. "Born ready."
I plate everything with more care than I usually bother with. Thick slices of steak fanned across the plate, potatoes piled beside them, green beans laid across the top like I'm plating for the goddamn food channel. I slide her plate across the island and watch her eyes.
She takes one bite of the steak and they close.
"Oh my."
"Yeah?"
"Who taught you to cook?"
"YouTube, mostly." I lean against the counter opposite her, cutting into my own plate. "And spite. My college roommate said I couldn't boil water, so I learned to make beef Wellington out of pure rage."
She laughs, sliding a strand of hair behind her ear as she stabs a potato with her fork.
For the next half an hour, we eat, and we talk.
That's it.
Morgan's sleepover texts keep rolling in, and Zoey shows me a photo of Morgan with glitter in her eyebrows, then another of Morgan and Isla building a blanket fort that looks structurally unsound.
Zoey shows me each one, and I lean across the island to see.
"She's having the time of her life," I murmur.
"She's going to be so tired tomorrow." Zoey shakes her head, but she's smiling. "Sugar crash by noon. Guaranteed."
"I'll have backup muffins ready."
She shoots me a look. "You'reenablingher."
"I'm investing in her happiness. There's a difference."
The conversation drifts to the bakery. To the recipe we finally nailed,togetherdespite what Zoey is saying. She thinks I should get credit at the launch event Delaney's planning at The Den this Saturday.
But I'm having none of it.
This is Zoey's moment. And I'm gonna make damn sure she gets everything she deserves.
"So walk me through it," Zoey says, dragging a green bean through the garlic butter on her plate. "What exactly happens at a Snow Leopards VIP event?"
"Depends. Delaney's involved, so expect champagne, speeches, and at least one moment where she makes a grown man cry."
Zoey laughs. "And the pastries? How many do I need?"
"Enough for two hundred people who've been drinking since six PM. So… a lot."
"Two hundred?"
"Relax. You've got three days. And—" I glance over to the tray of half-demolished pastries. "… You've got me."
She grins, shaking her head, and something warm spreads through my chest.
We clear the plates together, bumping hips at the sink, her washing while I dry. It's so domestic it should feel weird, but somehow, it feels like the most natural thing I've ever done.
