The aroma of cumin and turmeric greets Harley at the door. Perhaps a hint of cardamom, too. No cloves, thankfully. Pammy loves the little nubs, but the culinary delight ends for Harley the moment she catches one between her teeth.
Ditching coat, keys, and shoes, her first stop is Pammy's realm of magic. The woman's hair's still rolled up at her nape, from her voluntary service at the soup kitchen. The felt sweater she's wearing hangs loosely from her shoulders.
"Hey, orphan mom, I was looking for that," she says, winding her arms around the item in question and the person occupying it. "It was on the top of my pile."
"You didn't complain this morning when I borrowed it."
"Maybe because I was sleeping."
"That was on you," Pammy says, stirring the steaming sweet potatoes.
"I know, I know. But I needed some more Zs after working late." Harley nuzzles Pammy's neck. "I don't mind you taking it, but did you have to wear it to the homeless shelter?"
She's right to be worried; it's her coziest sweater after all. "Seeing as I'm the one doing the laundry anyway, you can't complain if I get it dirty."
"Hang on, is this going to devolve into an argument about chore division, because it sounds that way to me."
Chopped onions and ginger sizzle in the pan. "Sometimes I wonder if you bury yourself in patients just to avoid your share of work at home."
Harley laughs shakily. "I would never."