Sentence prompt 4
There weren’t many things in life that managed to make Commander Imani Shepard speechless, or afraid. After all, this was the self-same woman who stared down more than one Reaper, and whose passionate words even crumbled their indoctrination on at least one occasion.
The sight of Miranda Lawson hovering over the potatoes Imani had begun to boil, three hours before they were all set to meet her long lost birth family from Earth for the first time, the Shepard clan of New Orleans, Louisiana?
That did it.
“Miri? Honey?” Imani asked, a little too sweetly, her voice rising a sing song octave of barely concealed panic.
Miranda looked up from the pot, quirking a single brow at Imani, as cool and collected as ever. “Yes, Imani?”
“Whatcha doin, sweetie?”
Miranda stared at her. “I thought I’d lend a hand with the potato salad. I found a recipe on the extran–”
“NO!”
It was reflexive, really, the way Imani flew to the stove as if it were one of her biotic charges.
“Why the bloody hell not?” Miranda demanded.
“I love you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t trust your cooking. Stay out of my kitchen,” Imani said firmly.
“But–”
“Miri. Potato salad is–it’s serious. The most serious thing in the galaxy. You don’t understand. This is the food of my people. I can’t risk this. I can’t be that cousin at the reunion.”
Miranda scrunched her nose, and Imani tried very hard not to laugh all of a sudden. “I just wanted to help,” she muttered.
Imani did not often weaponize her famous smolder, but desperate times called for desperate measures. She narrowed her eyes, and leveled a gaze at Miranda. “I know, Miranda.”
For her part, Miranda coughed a little, clearing her throat, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “That’s ridiculously unfair,” she said archly.
Imani gently pressed her lips to Miranda’s cheek. “You can pack the utensils?” she offered rather diplomatically.
Miranda snorted, and walked away with a massive eyeroll.
