Her laugh is sharp and surprised. "Oh my god, you're one of those."
"One of what?"
"Those people who can't just let something be. Everything has to be optimized."
"You're a trauma surgeon. You're telling me you don't optimize?"
"In the OR, yes. In my kitchen that I barely use, I don't really care if my spatula is eight inches farther from the stove than it could be."
"You should. Time matters."
"Time matters when someone's bleeding out, Captain. Not when I'm reheating Chinese food at midnight."
We're facing off across her kitchen counter, plates between us, something alive in the air that has nothing to do with equipment theft or protective details.
"Fair point," I concede.
"Was that hard for you? Admitting I'm right?"
"Agonizing."
This time she definitely smiles. Takes another bite. "You're not what I expected."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true." She sets down her fork. "I expected military efficiency and tactical protocols. Not someone who'd take over my kitchen and criticize my knife maintenance."
"I can do both."
"Clearly." She pushes her empty plate away. "Thank you. For breakfast. Even though you steamrolled me into it."
"You needed food. I provided food. No steamrolling required."
"You literally told me sitting was non-negotiable."
"Because you were swaying."
"I was not—" She pauses. "Okay, maybe slightly. But still."
I collect both plates, rinse them in her sink. The smell of dish soap mixes with lingering bacon. Behind me, I hear her move, sense her closer than she was.
"Thatcher."
I turn. She's right there, close enough that I can see the bruise on her cheekbone is starting to yellow at the edges.
"Yeah?"
"The whole 'working together' thing you mentioned earlier. Does that mean I get to criticize how you do things too?"
"Try me."
"You use too much butter."
I glance at the pan. "That's the correct amount of butter."
"That's a cardiac event waiting to happen."
"You're a trauma surgeon, not a cardiologist. Stay in your lane, Doc."
