The dining room was awash in soft, midday sunlight streaming through the tall windows, making the polished table gleam. I carried the last plate from the kitchen, placing it carefully in its spot while Layla followed behind me with the basket of freshly baked rolls.
She moved with a slight bounce in her step, her oversized hoodie from earlier swapped for one of Grandma's floral aprons, which she'd insisted on wearing just to "match the vibe." It didn't match, but somehow, she still made it look good.
Grandma hovered by the table, practically vibrating with excitement as she watched us set up. "This looks wonderful, Zaya," she said, clasping her hands together. "I've been looking forward to this all morning."
"It's just lunch," I said, shrugging, though her enthusiasm tugged at something warm inside me.
"It's your cooking," she corrected, wagging a finger at me. "That's never 'just' anything."
