He glances back at me over his shoulder, one dark brow lifting. “No. I’ve got it under control.”
The smell suggests otherwise.
I pad over, peeking into the pan. “What… exactly is that?”
“Omelet,” he says without hesitation.
I tilt my head. “Is it supposed to be that color?”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Yes.”
“That’s a lie.”
He sighs, turning back to the pan. “I don’t cook much.”
“Clearly.”
There’s no bite in my voice, though, and I know he can hear the amusement threaded through it. I reach around him to nudge the heat down a little, my fingers brushing the back of his hand. He doesn’t pull away—he never does anymore—and instead, he shifts just enough to let me stand beside him.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say softly.
He shrugs one shoulder. “I wanted to.”
I look at him, really look, at the man who’s spent centuries fighting like the world was out to take everything from him, now standing here trying to make me breakfast even though it’s clearly not his strong suit. The thought warms me more than the fire crackling in the stove corner.
“You’re a grumpy mountain husband,” I murmur, unable to help the smile tugging at my lips.
His head snaps toward me, brow furrowed. “What?”
“You are.” I step back to the counter, grabbing plates. “You live up here like some brooding recluse, chopping wood, glaring at anyone who gets too close, and now—look at you—you’re cooking for me.”
His expression stays stern, but I catch the faintest gleam in his eyes. “If you keep calling me that, I’m not cooking again.”
“That’s probably for the best,” I tease, glancing at the pan.
He exhales, shaking his head, but there’s no heat in it. “Sit down.”
I do, sliding into the chair at the heavy oak table while he plates what I can only loosely call an omelet. The edges are crisp in some places and suspiciously pale in others, but I take the plate without hesitation.
One bite in, and I have to bite back a laugh. “It’s… interesting.”
His gaze narrows. “Interesting good, or interesting ‘please don’t make me eat this again’?”
I chew slowly, then swallow. “Both.”
For a second, I think he’s going to take the plate back, but instead, he picks up his fork and digs in, as if to prove something to himself. “It’s not that bad.”
“It’s edible,” I concede.
“Exactly.”
We eat like that, trading small barbs that don’t quite land as insults, and somewhere between the third and fourth bite, the heaviness that’s been pressing on us eases just enough to let a little light in. It’s not that the danger is gone—it’s that for this moment, it’s not in the room with us.
When we’re done, I start to stand to clear the plates, but he catches my wrist. “Leave it. I’ll clean up.”
“Really?”
He smirks faintly. “You don’t trust me to do dishes?”
