That makes me look up. Thatcher is watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Something heated and measured at once, like he's thinking things he won't say out loud.
"We should go." I reach for my bag. My heart is beating too fast. "It's late and I'm exhausted."
"You should eat something first."
"I ate at lunch."
"That was six hours ago, and you've been in surgery since then." He straightens from the window. "You need food."
"I need to go home and collapse."
"You need food, then you can collapse." His voice stays patient but firm. "We can grab something on the way, or I can cook when we get to your place. Your choice."
The presumption that he's coming to my place, that he'll be cooking in my kitchen again, should irritate me. Instead, I'm too tired to argue.
"Fine. Cook. Whatever." I grab my bag. "But nothing elaborate. I just want to eat and sleep."
"Understood."
The drive back to my apartment is quiet. I'm in my Range Rover finally, Thatcher following close behind in his truck. His headlights stay constant in my rearview mirror the entire drive, protective and reassuring.
He insists on clearing my apartment again before letting me inside. Checks every room, every window, every potential entry point. Military precision applied to civilian spaces.
"You're clear."
I drop my bag on the counter, strip off my white coat. Every muscle aches. The bruises are throbbing now that adrenaline's worn off.
Thatcher moves to my kitchen, starts pulling out ingredients. "Sit down before you fall down."
"I'm fine."
"You're swaying again."
"I am not—" I catch myself leaning against the counter. "Okay, maybe slightly."
"Sit."
I sit. Watch him work with the same efficiency he brings to everything. Within minutes, something's sizzling in a pan and the apartment smells like garlic and olive oil.
"What are you making?"
"Linguine. Easy to make and filling." He doesn't look up from chopping. "You need carbs and protein."
"You're very bossy about food."
"You're very bad at taking care of yourself."
"I take care of myself fine."
"Yeah?" He glances at me. "Before I cooked, when's the last time you ate a real meal at home instead of takeout?"
"I eat."
"That's not what I asked."
I pick at a loose thread on my scrubs. "I don't remember. Maybe a few weeks ago?"
"A few weeks." He shakes his head but doesn't lecture. Just plates the linguine with clam sauce, slides mine across the counter. "Eat."
