Lara wasn’t opposed to being a morning person. It all hinged on your interpretation of morning and what time she had hit the hay the previous day. If she managed to doze off before five in the afternoon, she was practically a morning person.
On days when she wasn’t working, she’d usually wake up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, around eleven. That was, on a good day.
Today was one of those good days. It was just shy of eleven, which meant she was ahead of schedule, and she had enjoyed a restful night’s sleep.
So, like any sensible adult, she cranked up the music and danced her way around her apartment, from her bedroom to her coffee maker, and then to the full-length mirror in her living room. There, she spent a solid minute admiring herself as she twerked and belted out the lyrics, albeit off-key.
“If you could see it from the front, wait ’til you see it from the back, back, back, back, back—back, back—ba-AAHHHH!”
Lara spun around, pointing an accusing finger at the man sprawled on her couch. He was smirking as he watched her make a complete fool of herself.
“Don’t stop on my account. I was enjoying the view from the back,” he said, struggling to suppress his laughter.
“Find a job!” she bellowed, before retreating to her bedroom to hide for the rest of the day.
Eventually, Zavien left the apartment to attend—or rather, host—a workshop. Lara didn’t quite grasp what he did there, especially since he had vehemently insisted that he was not a writer. Yet, people seemed eager to hear his thoughts on the writing process.
She had to admit, she found herself drawn to his words when he spoke. Well, most of the time.
With Zavien gone, Lara was free to act as foolishly as she pleased, although the memory of his face in her mirror that morning took some of the joy out of it. He hadn’t exactly mocked her, but there were only so many ways to interpret being caught in such a moment.
In hindsight, yelling at him might not have been the most rational response. It wasn’t his fault she had decided to throw a private dance party in her sweats. The guest list? Just her, her uninvited roommates, and her total lack of self-respect.
Poor Pablo had been so scared he kept avoiding her whenever she tried to pet him. Thankfully, he had forgiven her, but it had cost her a few Pupperoni treats when Zavien wasn’t looking.
With Pablo back on her side, Doja Cat banned from her playlists for the foreseeable future, and her embarrassment pushed aside, Lara was attempting the unthinkable. She was cooking.
Delia had laughed for a solid ten minutes when Lara called her for advice on how to make a simple, yet impressive dinner. She hadn’t been much help, but at least she hadn’t hung up on Lara like Jae had.
Jae was one of her oldest friends, her confidant, her rock during tough times. He was an amazing cook, a natural in the kitchen. He regularly whipped up mouthwatering meals for his boyfriend, Blake.
He had laughed for about thirty seconds before the call dropped, leaving Lara to fend for herself. She needed new friends.
After an hour of scouring the internet for beginner-friendly recipes that seemed impressive yet manageable, and a quick trip to the grocery store, she was ready to start. She found herself staring at a pot of gently simmering salted water, a bag of uncooked pasta shells beside her on the counter.
Her past attempts at pasta had resulted in clumped noodles, or ones stuck to the pot, or slightly crunchy ones. Not this time, she vowed. She was going to achieve the perfect al dente, just like Home Cooking with Hana had detailed in her food blog.
In a well-intentioned but misguided move, Blake had gifted her a food processor as a housewarming present. Lara had relegated it to the top shelf in her kitchen, never to be used. But now, she had climbed onto her barstool to retrieve it, and it finally had a purpose.
That purpose was to blend pine nuts and basil into a lovely green paste that she hoped tasted as good as it looked.
When she’d asked about the difference between olive oil and canola oil, she’d gotten a few odd looks. But one woman had been kind enough to suggest a hefty bottle of extra-virgin olive oil, exactly what her recipe required, and Lara was baffled at how she’d known.
The whole experience had been a bit unnerving, but now Lara had all the ingredients for what she hoped would be a tasty and accurate pesto.
She’d just finished grating her parmesan when it was time to add her pasta to the boiling water. She was sure she couldn’t burn water, but she wasn’t confident enough to take her eyes off the pasta as it bubbled.
At least the shells weren’t at risk of getting tangled like her noodles had when she’d tried making spaghetti and meatballs. Delia would never let her forget that.
She seasoned with salt and pepper to taste, as the recipe instructed, which was a bit concerning. Then she mixed her sauce with her perfectly cooked pasta (if she did say so herself).
Just as she was about to stir everything together with a big spoon, the front door opened. Pablo, who had been circling her feet for scraps, rushed to greet Zavien.
“I see I’m still Pablo’s favorite,” Zavien joked as he kicked off his shoes.
She turned to face him, apron on and a suspicious wet sensation on her cheek that she suspected was from her enthusiastic stirring.
“What are you doing?” he asked, surprised.
“I made dinner,” she announced cheerfully, feeling a glob of pesto sauce begin to slide down her cheek.
“You made dinner?” he echoed skeptically. When she shot him a glare, he quickly corrected himself. “I mean, why’d you make us dinner?”
As she turned back to stir her pot of surprisingly aromatic food, he approached her cautiously. He leaned in to take a tentative sniff.
“It smells…good?”
She felt a swell of pride. “It’s no big deal,” she said, even though it was a huge deal. “Consider it an apology for calling you unemployed and lazy.”
She gave him a sheepish smile, which he returned with a crooked grin of his own.
“When did you call me lazy?” he asked, leaning in a bit closer and making it slightly harder for her to breathe.
She felt her cheeks heat up. “It was implied.”
He hummed thoughtfully. His closeness made it so she could almost feel his voice as much as she heard it. That was not okay.
She sprinkled her grated parmesan over her carefully prepared dish, then grabbed a fork from the draining board and offered him a bite.
He took it without hesitation, which she thought was a testament to his bravery. She held her breath as he chewed, nodded thoughtfully, and finally swallowed.
Then, silence. She waited.
“It’s not bad,” he said, taking the fork and going for a second bite.
She watched in disbelief. He was actually voluntarily taking a second bite. Of food she had made.
She snatched the fork from his mouth and took a big bite herself.
“Oh, my god,” she mumbled around the pasta. “Oh, my god!” she exclaimed, turning to share her excitement with him. “It’s not bad!” she squealed.
He was laughing.
“Zavien, I made something edible!” she told him.
“Yes, I know,” he said, taking the fork from her to stop her from waving it around in her excitement.
“You have a little…” He gestured to the corner of his mouth.
She licked her lips, searching for whatever mess she had made. He shook his head, still smiling and laughing at her.
Eventually, he got tired of watching her tongue dart between the corners of her mouth. He lifted his thumb to her lips.
Her moist lips parted in surprise as he wiped his thumb across her bottom lip, removing a bit of pesto from the corner.
Her mind nearly short-circuited when he moved his thumb from her lips to his, their eyes still locked.
He almost made it, but Lara grabbed his wrist. In a surprising move, she took his thumb into her mouth to clean it, sucking gently and maintaining eye contact.
