“What are those?” I point to a row of jars along one counter, many covered in cheesecloth or filled with murky liquid.

“I’m fermenting.”

Like I’ve flipped a switch, suddenly, she’s completely forgotten the fact that I am standing here, my pants half open, or the fact that thirty seconds ago she wanted to be in them. She launches into a description of the fermenting process for miso.

“There’s two kinds of miso. And I have a rye vinegar.” She lifts up a jar filled with a deep amber liquid. “And in here.” She peels back the cheesecloth on a container. “Root vegetables with penicillium candidum.”

Slabs of what I assume used to be food sit in the container. All of it covered in a fuzzy white film.

“What the hell is that?” I press myself against her kitchen counter, holding my hand to my nose.

Her face falls and she covers her mold collection like their feelings might be hurt. “I’ve been experimenting with fermentation for foods. And as the weather gets better, I want to start foraging.”

“For what?”

She shrugs. She remains very dressed while goose bumps prickle along my exposed stomach. “Lots of things. Like, you can use wild rose petals to infuse flavor into different desserts and ice creams. Even drinks.”

“You’re a mad scientist.”

Sophie cocks her head to the side, studying me for a moment. “I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me but if you are may I remind you that you’re standing in my kitchen with your fly down.”

“I’m not.” I close the space between us. “It’s sexy. I promise.”

“Mold is sexy?” She sounds skeptical.

“Not the mold specifically.” I kiss her, a slow brush of my tongue. “But how excited you are about it. That’s sexy.”

She wraps her arms around my neck to deepen the kiss. “Can I come now?”

“You said you’re alone out there when you’ll be cooking for Camilla. Do you really feel that way?”

She bites her lip, looking away. She’s only turned on some of the overhead lighting, half of her lit by that and the other half of her face in darkness. “No. Not exactly. This feels different than last time. There’s no backstabbing. No one is getting voted off. But that doesn’t make this any easier to do.”

“To be on TV?”

“To put yourself out there,” she says, her voice high. “To volunteer to be judged. You said I should cook for myself but... I don’t know what that means for me or what that looks like?”

She glances around her kitchen, at the fermenting foods and a bag of rice, a collection of spices, like she’ll find the answers in them. If I could, I would gather up all the pieces of her that I love and put her back together, bit by bit.

Her softness, her loyalty. The way she seems to say yes to everything, like being my head chef and kissing me and investing in a restaurant that’s failing because she loves it. How smart she is, her hard work, and the way she can take a few basic ingredients and make them into something nourishing and beautiful and most of all delicious.