But I don't say any of that.
"Just things," I say.
He nods, like he understands that there are some things you don't talk about. Like he's got his own list of things that he doesn't share.
We work in silence for a few minutes. He adds cheese to the eggs, folds the omelet over with ease. I keep stirring the vegetables until they're soft and slightly caramelized.
"Okay," he says. "Turn off your burner."
I do, and he plates the omelet, adds the vegetables on top, then the bacon on the side. He does the same with a second plate, and suddenly we're standing there with two meals that actually look like food instead of a science experiment gone wrong.
"This looks amazing," I say.
"It's just eggs."
"It's not just eggs. It's—" I gesture at the plates. "It's an actual meal. With vegetables and everything."
"You need to raise your standards."
"My standards are fine. You're just really good at this."
He doesn't respond, just carries both plates back to the living room. I follow, and we sit on the couch again, plates balanced on our laps. Ridge lifts his head from where he's been dozing by the fire, immediately interested now that there's food involved.
"Don't even think about it," Eli tells him.
Ridge huffs and puts his head back down, but his eyes stay locked on our plates.
I take a bite, and—
Oh my God.
It's perfect. The eggs are fluffy and rich, the cheese is melted just right, and the vegetables add this sweetness that balances everything out. Even the bacon is perfect, crispy but not burnt, salty but not overwhelming.
"Eli," I say, and I'm not even exaggerating, "this is the best omelet I've ever had."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. It's amazing." I take another bite, practically moaning. "You could open a restaurant."
"I don't want to open a restaurant."
"But you could."
"I'm good out here."
I look at him. He's eating steadily, methodically, like it's just fuel. But there's something in his expression that's softer than it was before. Not by much, but enough that I notice.
"Thank you," I say. "For this. For letting me stay. For not kicking me out when I showed up uninvited."
"You brought lasagna."
"Terrible lasagna."
"You tried." He glances at me. "That counts for something."
This man. This grumpy, isolated, doesn't-like-people man just said that me trying counts for something.
I don't know what to do with that. So, I just eat my omelet and try not to read too much into it. We finish eating, the fire crackling beside us, the rain still pattering against the roof but lighter now. More peaceful than threatening.
