The kitchen grew busier while they talked. Lids tapped against pots, plates stacked, and water ran briefly in the sink before stopping again.
From the next room, Sacha's voice carried as she rummaged through cupboards, asking where the good bowls were as if the house had been waiting all this time for her to remember it.
She appeared a moment later with a stack of dishes balanced in both hands, wearing the confidence of someone who had appointed herself staff years ago and never quite resigned.
"Move," she ordered cheerfully.
Stan shifted his chair.
"Not you. The plates."
"Ah."
Sacha set the dishes down one by one and began serving without waiting for permission. She placed a generous portion in front of Stan, another in front of Mia, and only then helped herself, as if to prevent anyone from accusing her of neglecting her own plate. Steam rose immediately.
