Twelve minutes turned into fourteen because Addison refused to serve the pasta a single second before the spaghetti reached what she called "proper al dente" and what I called "hostage negotiation with noodles." She stood over the pot with a pair of tongs, pulling individual strands out, biting them in half, frowning at the internal texture like a forensic scientist evaluating evidence, then returning to her vigil while Aurora and I sat at the table pretending we had any say in the timeline.
When the food finally landed in front of me, I understood everything.
