In no time, the kitchen was warm, filled with the familiar scent. Miguel sat at the counter, watching Elizabeth move around with practiced ease.
"You always cook like you're in a rush," he observed, smirking slightly.
Elizabeth shot him a look over her shoulder. "I have better things to do than cook all day. This is efficiency, not rushing."
Miguel shook his head with a chuckle. "Mom would disagree. And seen as it's her recipe... that should count."
"Mom was a perfectionist," Elizabeth countered. "If she had it her way, we'd spend hours just chopping onions."
Miguel sighed, rolling his shoulders. "I don’t know how you do it—keep yourself so detached from things like this. Yet, I'm the one without emotions."
Elizabeth set down a spoon and turned to face him. "You think I'm detached?"
