"You okay?" I asked.
"Fine." The word came out clipped. He stood, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'm going to check the rig. Let me know what she says."
I didn't ask. Whatever was between Garrett and Sloane Harper, it wasn't my business.
Not yet.
The smell hit me the moment I opened the door.
Not smoke. Not burning. Something rich and savory that made my stomach growl before I'd even set down my bag.
Ava had the day off, which meant I didn't need to pick her up from the hospital. I'd half-expected to find her asleep on the couch with Watson on her chest, catching up on the rest she never got enough of.
Instead, she was in the kitchen, hair piled in a messy bun, one of my old flannels thrown over her t-shirt. Watson sat on the counter beside her, a health code violation she refused to acknowledge, watching her stir something with his usual air of supervision.
"You're cooking." I toed off my boots.
"I'm cooking." She didn't look up, focused on whatever was simmering. "And before you say anything, nothing is on fire."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"Your face was going to say it for you."
I crossed the kitchen, leaning over her shoulder to peer into the pot. Beef stew, from the look of it. Chunks of meat, carrots, potatoes, all swimming in a dark, fragrant broth.
"Is that rosemary?"
"And thyme. And a bay leaf." She picked up a wooden spoon, scooped up a small bite, and turned to face me. "Here. Taste."
She held the spoon up toward my mouth, her other hand cupped underneath to catch any drips. The gesture was simple. Domestic. The kind of thing couples did without thinking.
We weren't a couple. But standing there in the warm kitchen, with her looking up at me expectantly, the spoon hovering between us, it felt like we could be.
I leaned in, letting her feed me. Her eyes stayed on my face, watching for my reaction. The flavors hit my tongue. Rich, savory, perfectly seasoned. My eyebrows shot up before I could stop them.
Ava's lips curved. "Well?"
"That's good."
She swatted my arm with the spoon. "Don't sound so surprised. I can learn."
"You burned soup last month."
"That was a fluke. And we agreed never to speak of it again."
I grinned, stealing another taste directly from the pot. She didn't stop me.
"Seriously, Ava. This is really good."
Something pleased flickered across her face, quick and almost shy, before she schooled it back into mock annoyance. "Set the table, Torres. It'll be ready in ten minutes."
We ate on the couch because neither of us felt like being formal. Bowls of stew balanced on our laps, steam curling up between us. Watson positioned himself in the middle, yellow eyes tracking every spoonful from bowl to mouth, hopeful and shameless.
"The crew's working on something," I said between bites. "Shane, Garrett, and me. We reached out to a journalist. Sloane Harper."
Ava set down her spoon. "A journalist?"
"Investigative. She did the foster system exposé last year, the one about Tommy Vickers. We're hoping she can help us dig into the Langs. Build a case the DA can't ignore."
