“If I throw up on you, it’s your fault,” I warn.
“Noted.”
We make it to the kitchen. And I stop dead.
Because Anton Malikov—the man who once shot someone in front of me without blinking, who runs a criminal empire, who sleeps with a gun under his pillow—is now at the stove in black sweatpants and nothing else, flipping what looks like an omelet.
“What is happening right now?” I ask.
“Breakfast.”
“I can see that. But… you’re cooking. With a spatula. Like a person.”
He glances over his shoulder. “What did you think I used? My hands?”
“I don’t know! I just—” I wave helplessly. “This is very domestic.”
“You want me to shoot the omelet instead?”
“That’s not what I—” I stop. Narrow my eyes. “Are you teasing me?”
“Maybe.”
I lean against the counter, still dizzy but intrigued now. “What else don’t I know about you?”
“Plenty.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He plates the omelet—perfectly golden, folded just right—and sets it on the island. Then he pulls out a stool and gestures for me to sit.
I do. Slowly. Eyeing the food as if it might attack.
“It’s plain,” he says. “No cheese. No spices. Just eggs and a little butter.”
“How did you—?”
“Dr. Vera sent a list. Foods that won’t trigger nausea.” He slides a small plate toward me. “Toast. Dry. And ginger tea.”
I stare at the spread. Then at him.
He’s already back at the stove, cracking more eggs into a bowl.
“You… called Dr. Vera? About food?”
“Yesterday.”
“Why?”
“Because you threw up half a dozen times last week and barely ate anything after.” He whisks the eggs, movements efficient. Practiced. “I’m not watching you starve because your body decided to be an asshole.”
Something warm and dangerous blooms in my chest.
“Anton.”
“Eat.”
I pick up the fork. Take a tiny bite. The eggs are soft. Warm. Not greasy. My stomach considers rebelling, then… settles.
