“I thought you made me buy that meal-prep book from Caster’s Quarterly so you wouldn’t have to meal-plan anymore?” Adam leaned against the office doorway, eyebrows raised.

I froze over my notebook. I’d been hoping he wouldn’t walk in until I was done. Not because I was embarrassed exactly… just mildly defeated. This wasn’t my first “brand-new, totally different, definitely-going-to-work-this-time” meal plan. I’d made at least half a dozen of them. Then I got tired of reinventing dinner every week and bought that ridiculously expensive meal-planning book—the one that came with pre-made grocery lists and promised to “simplify your life forever.”

It only had one flaw: the recipes were terrible. Bland, joyless little meals that made me resent my own kitchen. And I was completely over it. But admitting that to Adam meant admitting I’d wasted money on something we both pretended was going to change our lives.

“You did,” I said, still scribbling in my notebook, “but after two months of bland meals, I want food that actually makes me happy to eat again.”

I kept my movements small; shifting too much would’ve woken Clark—Adam’s cat familiar—who was curled up on my lap like a furry heating pad. When he wasn’t talking, he was adorable. Silent Clark was my favorite Clark.

“I thought the food was okay,” he said, a little too sheepishly.

I glanced up. He hovered in the doorway, shoulders hunched like someone deciding whether to be brave or run. After months of complaints about bland meals and the kids refusing seconds, his sudden defense of the recipes made my brain do a confused somersault.

Clark yawned in my lap, stretching with deliberate laziness. “This is coming from the man who didn’t own salt or pepper before he got married,” he said.

“I had salt,” Adam shot back, offended on principle. “I used it for my rice balls.”

Clark clicked his tongue. “Okay—this is coming from the man who kept only two spices in the whole house, and one of them was strictly ornamental.”