"And soft chicken is... A tragedy," Sophie said flatly. "An absolute tragedy."
Stan smiled despite himself. He drifted behind her again, drawn back to her waist the way you drift toward warmth without quite deciding to. His hands settled there, and this time Sophie didn't pause.
She simply continued tending the pan, tilting her head slightly as she leaned forward to check the crust on the first piece, and he felt her settle back incrementally against him with the unconscious ease of someone who'd already decided this was allowed.
"Don't distract me now," she said, focused. "The crust is forming. This is a critical window."
"I'm not distracting you. I'm observing."
"You have very distracting hands."
"Very skilled hands, actually. I'd make an excellent masseur. You're clearly enjoying it, and I'm not even moving."
"That's somehow worse." She let out a soft breath, the corner of her mouth lifting as she reached for the tongs. "Alright, first flip."
