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The first thing Kesha hears when she steps into the kitchen isn’t Ariana’s greeting—it’s the sharp clack of Mr. Fluffy Pant$ launching himself off the counter, directly into Toulouse’s back. The cheagle lets out a scandalized yelp, skidding into Myron’s sprawled legs. The pitbull mix doesn’t even lift his head, just grunts as Toulouse scrambles upright, ears pinned in betrayal.
“Babe,” Kesha says, kicking a rogue squeaky pig toy out of her path, “are we cooking or staging a pet demolition derby?”
Ariana, sleeves rolled to her elbows and forearms dusted with flour, doesn’t turn around. She’s too busy wrist-deep in a bowl of basil leaves, her fingers working the pesto into a vibrant green paste. “Multitasking,” she says, and the smirk in her voice is audible. “You’re supposed to be chopping mushrooms, by the way.”
Kesha sidesteps Queso, who’s stalking Bacon’s tail like it’s prey, and reaches for the knife. “I was,” she lies, flicking a glance at the half-sliced shiitakes.
Ariana’s hip bumps hers as she leans over to grab the pine nuts, and Kesha catches the scent of her perfume—vanilla and something citrus-sharp—underneath the garlic simmering on the stove. Then Piggy Smallz trots between her feet, squealing like she’s been personally offended by the lack of snacks.
Kesha nearly drops the knife. “Jesus—”
Ariana’s hand closes over hers, steadying. “Distracted?” she murmurs, thumb brushing Kesha’s knuckle.
“A family of menaces, I swear,” Kesha mutters, but she’s grinning when she says it.
Behind them, Bacon flops onto his side with a dramatic sigh, directly onto Charlie’s tail. The calico’s indignant hiss sends Queso bolting under the table. Ariana laughs, bright and unguarded, and Kesha knows she's exactly where she wants to be.