I lean against the doorway, arms crossing loosely. “I’m observing.”
“That’s just a prettier word for hovering.”
A faint smirk pulls at my mouth. “You always this hostile when someone appreciates your cooking?”
She glances over her shoulder with sharp eyes, but there’s something softer underneath it now. Something that wasn’t there before.
“Depends,” she eases out. “Are you planning to critique it after?”
“Not if I want to eat.”
That earns a quiet huff of amusement, small but real.
I watch her for a moment longer than necessary, the way she moves around the kitchen, efficient and controlled. Every motion is purposeful and measured.
Even here, she’s still aware, still ready and resilient. That’s the word that keeps coming back to me. Not fragile, not broken, but resilient.
She shouldn’t have had to be. And yet, she is.
“Sit,” she says, nodding toward the table. “Or you’re going to make me nervous.”
“You? Nervous?”
“Sit, Alex.”
I push off the doorway and do as I’m told.
The table is already set with two plates, two glasses, and silverware haphazardly. Like she plopped them down in a rush.
She brings the food over a minute later and I’m not at all surprised. “Boxed mac and cheese,” I say smiling.
“We’re not talking about it,” she asserts as she sets the plate in front of me.
I look up at her. “About what?”
“Anything,” she replies, meeting my gaze. “No case. No investigation. No… anything like that.” Her voice falters just slightly on the last part.
I nod once. “Okay.”
She studies me for a second, like she’s waiting for me to argue. I don’t. That seems to surprise her more than it should.
“Okay?” she repeats.
“I can follow directions.”
“That’s new.”
“Selective,” I correct.
That almost pulls a smile out of her.
We eat in silence at first, not uncomfortably just… quiet.
The food is good. Better than good. I’d forgotten how good boxed mac and cheese can be. I don’t say it right away, but she notices anyway.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she points out.
“What thing?”
