“Please.”
He pours a mug and hands it to me. Our fingers don’t touch, but I feel the warmth radiating from him anyway.
“Thank you,” I say.
He moves to the counter. “Eggs. Toast. Ten minutes.”
“I can help.”
“You can sit.”
“Cole—”
One eyebrow raises. “You always argue this much?”
“Only when people try to do everything themselves.”
His mouth does that almost-smile thing again. “Fair. Fine. You can chop.”
Victory tastes almost as good as the coffee.
He sets a cutting board on the counter with a knife, an onion, and a bell pepper. “Small dice. Even pieces.”
“Yes, sir.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
At the sink, I wash my hands, then get to work. The knife’s sharp and the board is solid. My cuts aren’t perfect, but they’re close.
He cracks eggs into a bowl and whisks, then adds milk, salt, and pepper. His movements are efficient. No wasted motion.
“You cook a lot?” I ask.
“Every day.”
“Meals for one must get old.”
He shrugs. “Routine’s easier than deciding.”
I scrape the onion into a pile and grab the pepper. Knife, board, and scrape. The rhythm settles me. He moves left. I shift right. No collision.
“You mentioned Jesse earlier,” I say. “And Wells. Are they your… friends?”
“Yeah.”
“You see them often?” I ask.
“Often enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He glances at me. “We check in. Help when needed. That’s how it works up here.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It’s survival.”
“Still nice.”
