He doesn’t argue. Pours the eggs into the pan and tilts it, letting them spread evenly.
I finish the pepper and rinse the knife. “What else can I do?”
“Toast. Bread’s in the bin. Butter’s in the fridge.”
I find both and set up at the counter. I place four slices in the cast-iron pan he sets on the stove. The bread sizzles, butter pooling golden at the edges.
“You’re good at this,” he says.
“At toast?”
“At not getting in the way.”
I laugh. “That’s a low bar.”
“You’d be surprised.”
We plate the food and sit at the small table by the fire. The eggs are fluffy and seasoned just right. The toast is crisp. I realize I’m starving and eat too fast, then slow down when I catch him watching.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“You eat like you haven’t seen food in a week.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I was busy yesterday, so I didn’t really eat.”
His jaw tightens. “You drove up here on a granola bar?”
“I wasn’t planning to get stranded.”
He muttersrecklessand goes back to his eggs.
I bite back a smile.
We eat in silence. The fire crackles. Snow ticks against the windows. The generator hums its steady rhythm. My shoulders drop. The knot behind my ribs loosens. When did I last feel this quiet?
He finishes eating, stands, and takes his plate to the sink. Rinses it. Sets it in the rack with the same precision he does everything else.
I finish my eggs and bring mine over. He takes it without comment and rinses that too.
“I can do that?—”
“Already done.”
I lean against the counter.
Under the flannel shirt, his muscles shift with each movement. His hands are scarred with nicks and old burns.
“You said you were in the Army,” I say. “Special operations support. What does that mean?”
“Means I kept people alive long enough to complete the mission.”
“Medic?”
“Combat medic. Logistics. Whatever was needed.”
