I glance at her. She's chewing slowly, her expression shifting from hopeful to disappointed in real time.
"It's bad, isn't it?" she says.
"It's not bad."
"Eli."
"It's just—"
"Bad."
I set my fork down. "The pasta's overcooked. And it needs more salt. Maybe some garlic."
She drops her head back against the couch and groans. "I knew it. I knew I messed something up. I followed the recipe exactly, but something felt off when I was making it."
"You followed the recipe exactly?"
"Yes."
"That's your problem."
She lifts her head to look at me. "What do you mean?"
"Recipes are guidelines. You've got to taste as you go. Adjust. Every stove cooks different, every oven runs hot or cold. You can't just follow instructions and hope for the best."
"You cook?"
"I eat, don't I?"
"Yeah, but—" She gestures at me, like my existence itself is evidence against cooking skills. "You're a lumberjack who lives alone in the woods. I figured you survived on, I don't know, protein bars and canned soup."
Despite myself, I almost smile. "I know how to cook."
"Apparently better than me."
I look at her plate, then at mine. Neither of us is eating.
"Come on," I say, standing up.
"Where are we going?"
"Kitchen. If you're going to feed people, you need to know how to do it right."
She stares at me. "Are you… Are you offering to teach me how to cook?"
"I'm offering to make us something that's actually edible." I head toward the kitchen, not waiting to see if she follows. "You can watch. Maybe learn something."
I hear her get up, hear her footsteps behind me.
"You're full of surprises, Eli Cross," she says.
I don't respond to that. Just start pulling things out of the refrigerator—eggs, cheese, some vegetables that are still good. There's bacon in the freezer, bread that's only a day old.
"What are you making?" she asks, leaning against the counter.
"Breakfast."
"It's almost noon."