"The math of you rearranging my kitchen?"
I glance at her. She's got that surgeon face on—the one she probably uses when a resident suggests something stupid. "I moved one pan."
"You moved my cast iron from the left burner to the right burner."
"Because the left burner has uneven heat distribution." I crack eggs into a bowl. "You want them scrambled with the hot spots or evenly cooked?"
Her mouth opens. Closes. "How do you know about my burners?"
"I pay attention." The bacon hits the pan, immediate sizzle filling her apartment. "It's kind of my job."
"Your job is keeping me alive, not critiquing my cookware placement."
"Multitasking." I beat the eggs harder than necessary, trying not to notice how good she smells even exhausted—something clean and sharp under the hospital antiseptic. "You got cheese?"
"Do I— yes, I have cheese. Top shelf, left side, clearly labeled."
"The labeling didn't escape my notice." I grab the cheddar, start grating. "Little intense for a home fridge, Doc."
"Says the man who probably keeps MREs alphabetized."
That almost makes me smile. "By expiration date, not alphabetically. Alphabetically is for people who like eating expired rations."
She makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be choking. "You're serious."
"Efficiency matters." I pour eggs into the pan, watch them start to set. Her kitchen is too nice for base housing—high-end appliances, good knives, the kind of space someone who actually cares about cooking would set up. But the fridge tells me she doesn't cook much. Lots of takeout containers. Yogurt past its prime. "You don't use this kitchen."
"I work seventy-hour weeks."
"Noted." I fold eggs, add cheese. "Still seems like a waste."
"Are you seriously judging my grocery habits while making me breakfast I didn't ask for?"
"Yep." I plate the food, slide hers across the counter. "Eat."
She looks at the plate. At me. Back at the plate. "You're very bossy for someone who's a guest in my home."
"I'm not a guest. I'm your protective detail." I make my own plate, stay standing across the counter from her. Sitting feels too domestic. "Guests get asked. I'm assigned."
"Trust me, I'm aware." But she picks up her fork, takes a bite. Her eyes close for just a second. When they open, there's something softer there. "Okay, this is annoyingly good."
"Annoyingly."
"I wanted to be mad at you for taking over my kitchen." She takes another bite. "Hard to maintain righteous anger when someone's competent."
"You could try."
"Oh, I'm going to." But there's almost a smile hiding at the corner of her mouth. "Special operations Marine who cooks. What's next, you secretly play piano?"
"Guitar. Badly." I eat my own eggs, watching her start to relax as food hits her system. The tight set of her shoulders eases slightly. "And I wouldn't call this cooking. This is scrambled eggs. Cooking implies effort."
"It implies you knowing where everything is in my kitchen better than I do."
"You keep your spatulas in the drawer farthest from the stove."
"That's where they go!"
"That's where they go if you hate efficiency." I point my fork at her. "And your knives need sharpening."
