I pull a skillet from the cabinet, light the burner, and crack eggs into a bowl. The sound in the quiet kitchen is loud. Shell against ceramic. Whisk scraping. Butter hitting hot metal with a soft hiss. Coffee goes on next. Drip machine. Fresh grounds. The smell starts to bloom, dark and rich, and the house feels less like a bunker. I slice fruit while the eggs cook. A banana. Strawberries. Bacon in a second pan, because fat and salt do wonders for morale.
As I move, I think about last night again. Her voice when she asked me to stay. Not demanding. Not manipulating. Honest.
Please.
The way she looked at me like I was the only solid thing left in her world. I’ve been looked at like that before. Usually by people in shock. People who are one breath away from breaking. It’s not flattering. It’s a burden.
With Rowan, it felt different. Like she hated needing me, but trusted me anyway.
I flip the eggs, keeping my face neutral even though no one’s here to see it.
My phone buzzes again.
Crewe: Storage unit could be a lead. Paper trail shows payments from a nonprofit that matches Rowan’s story. Might be crossover between your case and ours.
I stare at the message, heat rising in my chest. I should be there. I should be on the ground with them, boots in dirt, helping kick doors, verify intel, keeping my brothers alive.
Instead I’m making eggs in a safe house kitchen. The thought tastes bitter. Then I glance down the hallway. Rowan’s door is still closed. And I remember the text on her phone.
You can’t hide behind soldiers forever.
Whoever sent it wanted her afraid. They succeeded. But not enough. Not while I’m here.
I type back.
Me: Keep me updated. If you confirm link to Rowan’s case, send everything. We’ll adjust.
I toss the phone aside and plate the food. Eggs folded soft. Bacon crisp. Fruit on the side. Coffee poured into a mug. I’m setting the plate on the table when I hear a soft shuffle in the hallway.
Rowan appears in the entryway like a question mark.
She’s barefoot, hair mussed, wearing an oversized T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder like it has no respect for my blood pressure. Her eyes are half-lidded, still hazy with sleep, and her face looks younger without the armor on.
She blinks at me, then at the table. “Is that… breakfast?” she asks, voice rough.
“Yes.”
Her nose scrunches. “You cook?”
“I can feed myself.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
I lean back against the counter, watching her cross the kitchen slowly, like her body is still negotiating with gravity. She rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand, then looks at me again.
Something in her expression shifts as she takes me in. She remembers last night. So do I. My chest tightens.
She clears her throat. “Hi.”
“Hey. Hungry?”
Rowan stares at the eggs like they’re holy. “I’m starving,” she admits.
“Eat.”
She picks up the fork, then pauses. Her gaze flicks to me again. “Did you sleep?”
A simple question but it’s loaded as hell.
