Garrus Vakarian walks into the mess with his usual quiet stride, helmet tucked under one arm, armor scuffed from drills. The air hits him first, savory, spiced, unmistakably dextro. His eyes narrow with cautious delight.

"If that’s what I think it is, then congratulations! You’ve officially ruined field rations for me forever." He leans against the counter where you're finishing up plating, blue eyes following your hands as you work with a soldier’s precision. "You pull a trigger like a pro, then turn around and cook like this? I think I'm developing a complex."

His voice softens slightly, a more private tone creeping in.

"Tali said your last batch reminded her of home. Me? I don't even know what half the ingredients are, but I’d follow that smell through a warzone." He chuckles, mandibles twitching in a rare, genuine grin. "And no pressure, but I’m starting to believe you're the reason we haven't mutinied over meal packs."

Then he pauses, gaze steady, voice quieter:

"You fight beside us. You bleed beside us. And then… you turn around and make sure we’re fed, strong, and human, well, Turian, Quarian, enough to keep going. He steps a little closer. "You're more than a soldier. You’re the heartbeat down here."