The casserole sat on the counter like a verdict.
Robby spotted it the moment he walked through the loft door: a ceramic dish, still steaming, its surface a careful golden-brown that spoke of precise oven timing and a deep emotional investment in the outcome.
Schmidt stood beside it, wearing oven mitts and an expression of solemn competence.
“It’s a chicken-and-rice situation,” Schmidt said.
“With a cream base, a hint of rosemary, and a top layer of cheese that I spent twenty minutes selecting.
It is, objectively, one of the best casseroles I have ever made.”
“It looks incredible,” Robby said.
“It’s not a celebration casserole.
It’s a — a support casserole.
A preemptive comfort dish.
For the period of uncertainty we’re all navigating together.”
“It’s a doom casserole,” Winston said, emerging from the hallway.
“We’ve been calling it the doom casserole all afternoon.
Schmidt won’t accept the name, but that’s what it is.”
“It’s a structured emotional-support meal.”
“It’s a casserole you make when you think someone’s about to get their heart broken and you want them to have carbs about it.”
Schmidt removed the oven mitts with the dignity of a judge removing ceremonial robes.
“The casserole exists to provide nourishment during a difficult time.
The difficult time may or may not arrive.
The casserole is prepared either way.”
The loft was doing what the loft did: turning anxiety into a shared ritual.
Jess was on the couch, curled into the corner with a blanket she wasn’t using, watching the casserole like it was a messenger bearing news she wasn’t ready to open.
Cece sat beside her, close enough to touch, not quite touching.
Nick was at the kitchen table with a beer and a book he wasn’t reading.
They’d all gathered.
They’d all braced.
And the casserole was the physical proof of it: the group’s decision, made collectively and without a vote, that the Robby-Jess relationship was already in its final chapter.
Robby walked to the counter and looked at the casserole.
It really did look incredible.
Golden-brown, aromatic, made with the kind of care Schmidt reserved for people he loved.
He picked up a spoon.
“What are you doing?” Schmidt asked.
“I’m going to eat it.”
“Now?
It’s a — it’s a group casserole.
It’s for dinner.”
“It’s six o’clock.
Dinner is six-thirty.
That’s close enough.”
He scooped a portion onto a plate — rice, chicken, the careful cheese top — and carried it to the table.
He sat down across from Nick, picked up his fork, and took a bite.
It was good.
Really good.
The rosemary hit first, then the cream, then the cheese that Schmidt had spent twenty minutes selecting.
He took another bite, then a third, while the room watched him with the kind of attention usually reserved for someone defusing a bomb.
“Schmidt,” he said, “this is the best casserole I’ve ever had.”
“It’s a support casserole.”
“It’s a great casserole.
You should be proud of it.”
“I am proud of it.
I’m just not sure you’re supposed to be eating it like it’s a normal Tuesday dinner.”
“Why not?”
“Because —” Schmidt gestured vaguely at the room, at Jess, at the unspoken weight of the Pollack connection.
“Because of the circumstances.”
“The circumstances haven’t changed since yesterday.
The appointment is still Tuesday.
The result is still pending.
The casserole is still excellent.”
Winston had pulled out his phone and was typing.
Robby made a mental note, the tracker is updating, the algorithm is recording this, and took another bite.
On the couch, Jess had unfolded slightly.
The blanket had slipped from her shoulders.
She was watching him eat the doom casserole with something that wasn’t quite a smile, but was close.
“You’re eating the breakup dinner,” she said.
“I’m eating a very good chicken-and-rice casserole that my girlfriend’s friend made.
If there’s a breakup dinner later, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Right now it’s Tuesday and the casserole is hot.”
Nick looked up from his book.
His expression was flat, unreadable: the same look he’d had at the first dinner, the same watchful stillness.
But something in his posture had shifted.
A fraction of an inch.
A recalibration he hadn’t signed up for and didn’t want to admit.
Robby met his eyes for a second.
Then he looked back at the casserole and took another bite.
,
Windowed Break.
Nick Miller
Nick watched the new guy eat the casserole and tried to name what he was feeling.
It was protectiveness, mostly.
The same thing he felt every time a new guy showed up around Jess: a low, steady hum of I’ve seen this before and I know how it ends.
The guy was nice.
The guy was earnest.
The guy was doing the right things, saying the right things, eating the support casserole like it was a normal dinner.
But Nick had watched Jess get her heart handed to her by nice guys.
Nice guys who said the right things and then, three months later, turned out to be the wrong thing.
Nice guys who were great at dinners and terrible at the long, quiet Tuesday afternoons.
He didn’t dislike Robby.
That was the hardest part.
Disliking him would be easier, would give the protectiveness a clean shape.
But Robby wasn’t giving him anything to push against.
He was just there, steady and unpanicked, eating the damn casserole like the Pollack connection was a minor paperwork issue.
That’s either real or it’s the best performance I’ve ever seen.
Nick took a long pull of his beer and watched the new guy eat.
He didn’t have a read yet.
He hated not having a read.
,
(End Nick window)
Back at the table, Robby had finished his portion and was considering seconds.
The loft had relaxed, incrementally.
Winston had stopped typing, Cece had picked up her wine, Jess was actually smiling.
“It’s really good,” Robby said to Schmidt.
“I’m not just saying that because it’s a support casserole.”
“You’re eating it like it’s not a support casserole.”
“It’s a casserole.
The support is a bonus.”
Schmidt looked at him for a long moment: the same way Cece had looked at him during the Pollack-night, the same recalibration happening behind his eyes.
Then he pulled out the chair across from Robby and sat down.
“If the test clears,” Schmidt said quietly, “you’re going to have to teach me how you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Stay steady while the room is panicking.”
“Mostly I just think about the next thing I have to do and do it.”
“That’s not a technique.
That’s a constitution.”
“It’s a case-manager habit.
You can learn it.
It just takes more support casseroles.”
Schmidt’s mouth twitched: the closest thing to a smile Robby had seen from him all night.
“I’ll add it to the rotation.”