Dinner turned into one of the gentlest, most dangerous evenings I had had in a long time.
We ate slowly, the soft music floating through the room doing little to mask the quiet, steady cadence of her voice. Jasmine kept reaching across the table, stealing bites from my plate with a straight face, only to chew thoughtfully and declare that hers somehow tasted better.
When she held out a forkful of food for me, her eyes were bright with an expectant spark. I leaned forward, letting her feed me, and the moment the fork cleared my lips, her face broke into a victorious grin.
"See?" she said, leaning back with her chin tilted up. "Mine is better."
"You say that with the terrifying confidence of someone who did not touch a single pot or pan tonight."
"I supervised emotionally," she countered, without missing a beat. "I gave the chef moral support. That is seventy percent of the work."
A laugh broke out of my chest before I could stop it.
