"Can I help?" Cel leans on the counter, fidgeting with a squash. "I can cut, I mean, I'm no expert? But I know my way around some veg."
Zolf turns from the frying pan, throat dry, chest hollow. What's he supposed to say?
No. Wouldn't do me any good.
No. Do that myself, so I won't turn my back and hear knives on the cutting board.
No. Had a friend. Used to think she'd like that kinda thing. Dreamed about it sometimes.
"You can stir." He hands them the spatula, takes the knife and squash himself. "Don't let it burn."