Page 36 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

He stared at me like I'd lost my mind, and maybe I had. “What?”

“The raccoons—what if we trained them to be part of our backup crew? Like distraction units or little swamp commandos.”

He stared at me like I’d sprouted antlers.

“I’m serious,” I chuckled, poking at my chicken. “They’re smart, and they’ve got tiny hands. Imagine the possibilities.”

“You’re insane,” he choked out, half laughing.

“But adorable?”

There was a pause, a heartbeat too long. Then he looked right at me, eyes dark and warm and way too steady.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Crazy but adorable.”

My heart did a full somersault, crashed into my ribs, and rolled to a stop somewhere near my lungs. I refused to show it, though.

Instead, I cleared my throat. “The military’s used dolphins before. Why not raccoons?”

“Because dolphins can’t fit through dog doors and open jars.”

“That sounds like a pro to me.”

He shook his head, still smiling and still looking at me like he was seeing something I hadn’t meant to show. And the worst part was that I didn’t want to look away. I was dangerously close to launching myself across the firepit and climbing him like a tree, so I did the only thing that made sense. I redirected.

Clearing my throat, I stared at my plate like it held ancient wisdom. “So,” I drawled casually, like I wasn’t fighting off an overwhelming thirst for this man, “how did you make the chicken taste so good?”

Webb glanced up, tearing off a piece of thigh meat with a nod of approval. “Probably the skillet.”

My hand stopped halfway to my mouth. “Thewhat?”

“It's cast iron, and the trick is keeping it seasoned.”

My brain conjured up an image of him dramatically sprinkling Lawry’s seasoning all over a pan like Salt Bae. “So, like, you mean adding seasoning every time?”

He gave me a weird look, then shook his head. “No, you season the skillet itself. You've also gotta wipe it down after cooking, don’t ever wash it with soap. It builds flavor and makes the pan better over time.”

I froze mid-chew, then slowly lowered my fork.

“Wait, you don’t wash it with soap and water?”

His face was so calm when he said it, so casually, like he hadn’t just admitted to the culinary equivalent of crime. “That’d ruin the seasoning. You just scrape out the bits and wipe it down. The heat does the rest.”

My entire digestive system did a backflip, and I clamped a hand over my mouth, eyes wide. “Oh my God.”

He frowned. “What?”

I stood up slightly, looking at my plate like it had betrayed me. “I’ve been eating pan bacteria. I just willingly ingested a colony of old chicken ghosts and grease microbes!”

He raised both eyebrows. “It’s fine. It’s the same thing everyone’s grandma does.”

“Okay, but did Grandma survive the Great Salmonella Plague of 2023? Did she?”

He looked so entertained. “Gabby?—”

“Don’t ‘Gabby’ me like I’m the unreasonable one. You’ve been seasoning a pan with the hopes and dreams of bacteria! What if I die before the bad guys get here? What if it’s not a bullet that gets me—it’s botulism?”

He laughed—actually laughed—the deep, amused kind that made it really hard to stay dramatic. His shoulders shook, and he leaned back in his chair, fork still in hand.

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