His suit was unbuttoned, his tie dangling like a regret he hadn't quite processed, and his expression held the wild-eyed daze of a man who'd been emotionally blindsided by a tart with too much zest.
He held up a foil-covered casserole dish, as if it were both peace offering and armor. "I… made a lasagna."
Ava turned slowly, the kind of slow that suggested she was considering three possible responses: dignity, homicide, or interpretive dance fueled by grief and eggplant.
"A lasagna?" she asked.
Zach looked down at the casserole, unsure. "It's… gluten-free. With layers of pent-up avoidance and aged regret."
Lady Summers appeared behind a mimosa-drenched bush like a brunch-themed specter. "He offers a Layered Dish of Accountability," she intoned. "The ancient brunch laws permit this."
Adelle flipped her scroll. "Yep. Article 3, Section F: 'He who was emotionally distant may offer baked reconciliation, provided the cheese is sincere.'"
