Ava did, however, feel the need to photograph it.
"Hold still," she said, raising her phone with the reverence of a wildlife documentarian spotting a rare bird. "This is the first pancake you've made that doesn't look like an existential crisis."
Zach proudly posed with the pan, beaming like he'd just cured seasonal depression. "Send that to Shen. Caption it: 'Victory. Your move.'"
She snorted but snapped the photo anyway.
At that exact moment, Adelle returned—wearing a colander on her head like a battle helmet and armed with a ladle and oven mitts. "Zach," she said gravely, "your cat has barricaded herself in my laundry basket and is holding my socks hostage."
Ava raised an eyebrow. "Our cat?"
Zach pointed at her with the spatula. "Your cat. I wanted a dog, remember?"
"You said a dog. She said you'll get a rash."
"She's psychic!"
"She's vindictive."
"Same thing," Adelle muttered, ladling pancake batter directly onto the counter like it was performance art.
