Nick
The silence that followed felt infinitely worse than the argument. It left me standing there, feeling more unsettled than if he had spent the next ten minutes mocking me.
I turned back to the stove, throwing the vegetables into the pot with a little more force than necessary, letting the broth hiss as it hit the heat.
Twenty minutes later, the soup was done. I ladled a generous portion into a heavy ceramic bowl, added a piece of toasted bread to the side, and set it down on the counter in front of him with a sharp clink.
I stood back, arms crossed again, watching with a guarded kind of tension to see what he would do.
Cyan looked down at the bowl. He picked up the spoon, blew on the broth lightly, and took a bite.
He went completely still.
I looked away instantly, staring studiously at the tile backsplash, pretending I didn't care what verdict he was about to deliver.
After a long pause, Cyan swallowed. "This is annoyingly good."
"It's soup."
