She laughed as she pinched the seal on another momo. She was getting the hang of this, but Rohan’s were still better. She couldn’t believe Lisa didn’t care that he could cook. Watching him was mesmerizing, even in the polka-dot apron. Sweater and shirtsleeves rolled up (because, even if no suit, he had a dress shirt under the sweater). Biceps flexing as he worked the rolling pin. Large hands surprisingly delicate while pleating the tops of the perfect dumplings. And dear lord, those forearms. She wasn’t sure she’d seen them before—well, not in a long time, at least. Strong. Solid. Those capable forearms made momo-making seem effortless, but the bare hint of sheen at his hairline proved he was putting effort into this.

Would anyone else have done this for her? Roll up his sleeves and make dozens of dumplings only an hour before a party? Yes, probably. Ernesto would have done it. Definitely Asha. Even Dad would have tried his hands at momo-making, if he were home. Not Tim, but Jerome might do it.

It wasn’t really all that special that Rohan was doing this for her. But it felt like it was. This felt precious.

“Okay, old man, show me how you’re doing those pleats. Clearly, you’re the momo expert in the room, and I want to absorb some of that brilliance.”

He grinned as he peeled a wrapper off the counter and filled it. He moved nearer to show her close-up how he pleated the tops. It took several tries, but with his hands under hers, she was able to make dumplings that looked almost as good as his.

“Hey,” Kamila said as she carefully measured a teaspoon of filling into another wrapper. “Did you know momos were almost banned in Delhi a few years ago?”

He raised his brow. “That’s absurd. Why?”

“They claimed it was because of the monosodium glutamate. But instead of banning the ingredient, this whacky politician decided to try to ban the entire food.” She pleated the dough over the little mound of filling. “MSG is in fried chicken and Doritos, but they decided to go after this one Tibetan dish that had recently become ridiculously popular in India. It’s totally xenophobia. Fear of the unknown and nationalism is the root of it, as usual.” She put the completed momo on the parchment-paper-lined tray, ensuring it didn’t touch any of the surrounding dumplings. Kamila was determined that no momo should ever touch another momo again, lest they get stuck together, forever. They would live solitary, lonely lives until they met in her stomach.