She switches to the backstroke after ten laps. Ten more and she rolls over again; breaststroke. She has waterproof headphones and an audiobook going.
"Like picking off a menu!"
She takes another slice of pie out of the picnic basket. Om nom nom. "If this winds up turning into domestic bliss you get to do all the cooking."
"I'll certainly pull the both of you to adorably help me with it every now and then."
"I'm competent to chop and stir."
"I'm just a useless green," says Ohan, dramatically throwing his head back with the back of his wrist resting on his forehead.
"I guess I could help with measuring and mixing," he sighs longsufferingly.
"You're all set for sous chefs," Pelape chirps.
"Is a cooking TV show out-of-caste for all of us?"
"I think Ohan could do it if it were fictionalized heavily enough."
"You don't want to tell your viewers that this soup is always better with a pinch of stardust to keep your show from being illegally purple?"
"I wouldn't be a charismatic character at all, he's the actor, I am an asshole."
"You don't seem like an asshole."