"Toast." His tone is flat. Disapproving. Very doctor-like. "You ate toast. Once. Yesterday."
"It was good toast. I put peanut butter on it."
"Jessica."
"What? I've been busy. Having a crisis. Crises are very time-consuming. They don't leave much room for meal planning."
He shakes his head, but he's scooping extra batter onto the griddle. Making the pancakes bigger. Adding more chocolate chips.
"You need to eat," he says, and it's not a suggestion. It's a doctor's order. "Your body is going through transition. You need fuel."
"I know, I know." I wave a hand. "You already gave me the lecture at the clinic. Hormones. Changes. Eat food. Stay hydrated. I was paying attention."
"Were you?" He looks at me again, and this time he doesn't look away. "Because you look like you haven't slept in three days, you're wearing someone else's clothes, and you just admitted you've eaten one piece of toast in the last twenty-four hours."
"It was a big piece of toast."
"Jessica."
"Fine. You're right. I'll eat." I hold up my hands in surrender. "I'll eat your mom's pancakes with irresponsible amounts of chocolate. Is that better?"
"It's a start." He flips the pancakes with practiced efficiency. "You also need to sleep more. And drink water. And probably take the vitamins I prescribed."
"Wow. Bossy this morning, aren't we?"
"I'm always bossy. You just forgot." He slides three huge pancakes onto a plate and hands it to me. "Eat."
I take the plate, our fingers brushing again. That same spark. That same awareness.
He feels it too. I can tell by the way his breath catches. The way his eyes linger on my face.
Then he turns away quickly and starts making more pancakes.
I look down at the plate in my lap. Three massive pancakes, golden and perfect, studded with chocolate chips that are still melting. Steam rises from them, carrying that perfect breakfast smell.
My eyes sting unexpectedly.
When was the last time someone noticed I wasn't eating and cared?
Callum never cooked. Never noticed when I skipped meals. He probably would have been happy if I stopped eating altogether. "Getting closer to that goal weight," he'd probably say.
But Pedro noticed. Pedro, who barely knows me anymore, made me pancakes with too much chocolate.
"You okay?" His voice cuts through my thoughts.
I look up. He's watching me with concern in those grey eyes.
"Yeah." I pick up the fork he handed me. "Just. Thank you. For this."
"It's just pancakes."
"It's not just pancakes." I cut into the stack, and syrup pools around the edges. "It's someone noticing I need to eat. That's. That's not nothing."
His expression softens.
"You're in my house now," he says quietly. “Our packhouse which means we notice things. Like when you're not eating. Or sleeping. Or taking care of yourself."
"That sounds suspiciously like you're all going to gang up on me."
