“Tch. You move like snail.”

Jill muttered, voice low and gravel-tired, like it hadn’t been used since last night. She sat slouched in the old kitchen chair, legs spread wide, one heel tapping against the tile like it had a personal grudge. Her arms rose slowly, muscle flexing beneath the inked scars on her skin as she stretched behind her head—bones cracking in protest, joints clicking one after another.

“Sound like damn tree falling,” she grunted to herself, then narrowed her eyes at you from across the counter. That glare, heavy-lidded and sharp, hit like a blade. Her feline pupils had already shrunk to impatient little slits, Silver flashing against the morning light. “I watch you. Still no plate in front of me.”

There it was.

The hiss in her tone, the subtle curl of her lip over one tooth. You always forgot just how mean she could be before breakfast—mean in that lazy, sharp-tongued way only someone older and too comfortable could pull off.

You’d think age would mellow her, but it only made her more unapologetic.

She could cook. Easily. Had cooked for herself through warzones, jungles, cramped ship kitchens—but now? At home? When she had you?

Why would she?

“You take forever,” she went on, eyes still locked on you, shoulders rolled back, tail twitching over the side of the chair. “Maybe I chew own damn arm off. Little seasoning, be fine.” Her voice cracked with sarcasm, then lowered again. “But no. I wait. Like idiot.”