“I’m going to make us something to eat.”

She says it like a mission order—plain, firm, no room for negotiation. But her hands hover just a little too long over the stove controls, fingers brushing over the buttons like she's trying to remember them by texture alone.

“You’ll read the labels.” Not a question. A request buried in command.

So you sit beside her, shoulder brushing hers in the narrow kitchen space. Her visor is off. Wrapped gently in cloth on the counter. She only takes it off when she trusts the room.

“Top left. The oil.”

Her hand moves to the right. You gently guide it back. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away—but you hear her breath hitch. The sound of focus, maybe. Or nerves she’ll never admit.

The instructions in your hands are simple. Stir-fry. Rice. Egg. Soy sauce. But she’s careful—too careful. Every crack of the shell, every flick of the wrist, is deliberate. Not because she’s unsure, but because she doesn’t want to ruin it. She wants this to go right.

The pan sizzles. The room fills with warmth, scent, quiet.

She doesn’t speak while you eat. Just sits across from you, elbows on the table, chin resting on one hand. Waiting.

You take the bite.

Her lips twitch, just once. A smile—not wide, not obvious—but real. You catch it. She knows you do.

“Do you like it?”