She turns fully to face me, plate in hand. The food looks good—better than good, actually. Perfectly crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, pancakes that are only slightly too dark around the edges. It's the kind of breakfast that takes effort, that shows care.
"Breakfast?" she offers, extending the plate toward me.
My stomach growls in response—loud and insistent and impossible to ignore. Twelve hours of on-call work tends to leaveyou hungry, especially when the station's idea of food is reheated pizza and protein bars.
"I'm famished," I admit, and the smile that spreads across my face is entirely genuine.
She gestures toward the breakfast bar, and I settle onto one of the high-backed stools while she finishes plating. The kitchen island is gorgeous—black marble veined with gold—and I've always been a little jealous of Tank's house. The man has impeccable taste, even if he never brings anyone home to appreciate it.
Until now, apparently.
I unstrap the heavier parts of my gear while she works—the jacket gets draped over the stool beside me, the boots I kick off because I'm not an animal who wears fireproof footwear inside someone else's house. Underneath, I'm in the standard-issue pants and a black thermal that's seen better days but is comfortable as hell.
She sets a plate in front of me with the kind of efficiency that suggests experience—not just cooking, but serving. There's a grace to her movements, a practiced ease that makes me wonder about her background. Hospitality? Restaurant work? The way she arranges the food is almost artistic, even though she'd probably dismiss it as basic.
I take my first bite, and I have to close my eyes because the bacon is genuinely perfect. Crispy without being burnt, flavorful without being oversalted. The eggs are fluffy and seasoned just right. Even the slightly-too-dark pancakes taste better than they have any right to—there's vanilla in them, I think, and maybe a hint of cinnamon.
Okay. She can cook. She can definitely cook. Add that to the list of things I'm finding unreasonably attractive about this woman.
"So," she says, leaning against the counter across from me. "Were you out on the line of duty?"
I take a bite of bacon—perfectly crispy, exactly the way I like it—before answering. "Today was on-call only. But a few drills don't hurt. Keeps the team sharp, keeps the equipment checked, keeps us from going stir-crazy waiting for something to happen."
She nods, and there's genuine interest in her expression. Not the performative "oh how brave" response I get from most people when they find out what I do for a living. Just... curiosity. Engagement.
"How do you like your coffee?" she asks, already moving toward the French press that's been steeping on the counter.
I laugh—can't help it. "Well, the coffee I actually like can't be made. Not with standard equipment, anyway."
Something shifts in her expression. The casual, slightly guarded demeanor she's been wearing since I walked in... changes. Her spine straightens. Her eyes sharpen. There's a new energy in the way she holds herself—focused, almost competitive.
"Try me," she says, and it's a challenge. A genuine, honest-to-God challenge, delivered with a smirk that does interesting things to my heart rate. "If I have the ingredients, it can be made."
Oh. Oh, this is interesting. This isn't casual conversation anymore. This is someone in their element.
I arch an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. "Fine. Can you make a caramelized honey oat milk latte with espresso undertones and just a hint of cardamom? Not too sweet, not too bitter—that perfect balance where you can taste every note but none of them overpower the others?"
It's a tall order. I know it's a tall order. Most coffee shops look at me like I've grown a second head when I describe it, and the few that attempt it never quite get the ratios right. It's the kind ofdrink I only get properly made when I visit this one specific café in the city, run by a barista who charges twice what anyone else does because she knows she's worth it.
The omega doesn't even blink.
"Interesting," she says, and she's already moving. Opening cabinets, checking containers, assembling ingredients with the kind of muscle memory that only comes from doing something a thousand times. "Caramelized honey, oat milk, cardamom..." She finds a small jar in the spice cabinet and holds it up triumphantly. "You're in luck. Tank apparently has taste."
She's actually going to try it. She's actually confident enough to attempt the most finicky coffee order I've ever given anyone.
I watch her work, and it's like watching a completely different person emerge.
The shy undercurrent I sensed earlier—the slight guardedness, the way she seems to hold parts of herself back—vanishes entirely. In its place is pure, unfiltered confidence. She moves through the kitchen like she owns it, like she was born to be surrounded by brewing equipment and raw ingredients.
She heats the honey in a small pan, watching it carefully until it begins to caramelize, the color deepening from golden to amber. The oat milk goes into a separate container for frothing—she's using what looks like a manual frother she found in one of Tank's drawers, working it with practiced efficiency. The espresso comes from the French press she'd already prepared, concentrated and strong.
And the cardamom... she doesn't just dump it in. She grinds fresh pods with a mortar and pestle that I didn't even know Tank owned, releasing that distinctive sweet-spicy aroma that tells me she knows exactly what she's doing.
The whole kitchen smells incredible now—the savory remnants of breakfast mixing with the sweetness of caramelizinghoney and the exotic warmth of cardamom. It's layered over her natural scent in a way that makes my mouth water for reasons that have nothing to do with food.
This isn't someone who learned coffee from a YouTube tutorial. This is someone who's trained. Who's devoted time and energy and passion to mastering this craft.
The way she moves—confident, precise, completely in her element—it's like watching an artist at work. Every movement has purpose. Every decision is deliberate. She's not just making coffee; she's creating something.
