“She’s a cat. You’re supposed to be the one with opposable thumbs and boundary-setting abilities.”
“She makes a compelling case.” He tilts his head toward the counter. “Sit. You should be in bed.”
“I got bored of bed.” I climb onto one of the bar stools at the counter.
Chris turns from the frying pan, slides a plate in front of me. A grilled cheese, cut diagonally, golden-brown.
I stare at it. Look up at him. He’s already turned back to the stove.
“Wyatt said you were craving one,” he says, like it’s nothing.
It’s not nothing. It’s so far from nothing that my throat tightens and I have to press my lips together before I embarrass myself again. I pick up a half and take a bite. Buttery, crisp, the cheese stretching in that perfect way.
“What else are you making?” I manage around the next bite, once I trust my voice.
“Arroz con pollo. Sort of.” Chris moves back to the stove, peeks beneath the lid of the pot on one burner, allowing a billow of aromatic steam to rise into the air. “Modified version.”
“Since when do you make arroz con pollo?”
His shoulders tighten, just barely. “Picked it up in Mexico.”
The words land flat, deliberate. A door cracking open and immediately bracing to slam shut.
Wyatt shoots me a look—let it go—and redirects. “He’s being modest. It smells incredible.”
Whatever door cracked open does slam shut. Chris replaces the lid with more force than necessary.
“I need to make a call,” he says abruptly. “Check in with McIntyre about tomorrow’s debrief.” He glances at Wyatt. “Can you?—”
“I’ve got it.”
Chris nods, already moving toward the door. Doesn’t look at me. Just goes.
The silence settles, awkward and sharp-edged.
“Sorry,” Wyatt says, taking over. “He’s not trying to be an asshole.”
“I know.”
“He just—” Wyatt stops, recalibrates. “There are things about that operation he can’t talk about. Things even I don’t know the full scope of.”
“But you know some of it.”
His hands still. “Some.”
“And it’s bad.”
“Yeah, Nina. It’s bad.”
I want to push. Want to demand details, explanations, the truth about what happened to Chris during those years. But the exhaustion in Wyatt’s face stops me.
“He’ll tell you when he’s ready,” Wyatt continues, stirring the rice. “Or he won’t. But it’s not my story to share.”
“I understand.”
Do I though? I understand the words. The concept of boundaries, of respecting someone’s trauma timeline. But understanding doesn’t stop the frustration building in my chest. Doesn’t stop the questions multiplying.
Wyatt glances at my empty plate. “Ready for round two?”
