With that, he turned on his heel and marched away.
Dahlia looked down, face beet red. She wiped some scraps from the table onto her palm, dumping them into the trash. Picking up a rag, she busied herself with cleaning their already clean counter.
London scowled, their short fingernails digging into their palms. If they were getting the work done, what did it matter if they were having fun?
Because London had been, they realized. Having fun.
“I’m sorry,” they said quietly. Dahlia glanced at them, mustering a smile before a flash of uncertainty flickered in her eyes.
“They can’t really kick me off the show for that, can they?”
London shook their head. “I don’t think so. If they can, I’m going down first. You’re right. I started it.”
“Nah,” she said. “All those nonbinary kids in Tennessee need you.”
London was quiet. They didn’t know what to say to that.
“Seriously, though,” Dahlia whispered. “You don’t think they’ll air any of this conversation, right?”
“Do I think they’ll air us talking about torturing a fellow contestant? No, Dahlia, I don’t.” London paused. “It would be funny, though, if they did.”
“They’ll probably air my trip on the first episode, though.”
London grimaced. “Yeah. They’ll probably air that.”
Dahlia was quiet a moment. Then she laughed a little. “Wow. I am really bad at this.”
“No, you’re not. I thought we already established this. Your swordfish yesterday—”
“No, no.” Dahlia waved them off again. “Not cooking. Being on TV. I am bad at being a human adult on TV.”
“Oh.” London considered this. The spectacular trip and Tanner Tavish getting up in Dahlia’s face would make for good TV, sure. But London mainly thought about how her skin would shine on camera, how radiant her smile would be.
“Maybe,” they said.
They started chopping mint and dill for Dahlia’s tzatziki. The two of them had somehow started working together on each other’s dishes, without talking about it.
“They’ll air me almost slicing my finger off, too,” London said after a minute. “So until you shed some blood, you can really get over yourself, Woodson.”
Dahlia brushed olive oil over slices of pita. She smiled, small and quiet. She dropped sea salt and pepper over the pita before popping them in the oven.
“How did you know?” London asked. “That I had hurt myself yesterday? I don’t think I even made a noise.”
“Oh, yes, you did.” Dahlia’s face perked up. “You hissed. Like, eeeeeeessshhh.” She stretched out her mouth, her neck contorting in a surprisingly unattractive manner.
“I did not.”
“Believe me, you did. Hank was an absolute klutz growing up, always hurting himself. I’d recognize that hiss of pain anywhere.”
“I think I would have remembered hissing.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. You were in shock. Is it bothering you, cooking today?”
She reached out and touched London’s thumb.
It was barely a graze, just where the bandage ended.
But London’s tongue felt oddly heavy in their mouth anyway.
“It’s fine,” they managed. Dahlia nodded. She moved her hand, popped a slice of cucumber in her mouth.
London and Dahlia got back to work. They were good at working together, moving around each other, borrowing tools, handing each other ingredients with ease. London tried not to dwell on Dahlia’s fingers on their hand, on the sounds she made when she sampled something that particularly pleased her palate.
They thought, This is a good day.
Elsewhere, however, all was not well on Team Jeffrey.
Ahmed and Beth were having some serious issues over the salmon. Exactly what, London couldn’t tell, but there was a lot of tension five feet away. Jeffrey strode toward them, his face set on supervillain-who-just-realized-they’re-going-to-lose mode, with Sai Patel not far behind.
“Yikes,” London muttered.
“Should we help?” Dahlia worried her bottom lip.
“What the fuck is wrong with you two?” Jeffrey yelled.
“Fuck you,” Beth responded.
“Seems like they have it under control,” London said.
“Oh, absolutely.” Dahlia nodded quickly.
London dipped a slice of orange bell pepper through Dahlia’s hummus.
“That’s some damn good hummus.”
Dahlia beamed. “Thanks, friend.”