"That's comforting," I say dryly.
"Only if you behave," Caleb responds with a wink that doesn't quite mask the warning beneath.
For all his easy smiles, there's steel in his spine too—the kind forged in places where laughter is sometimes the only defense against darkness.
By the time dinner rolls around, I'm cold, sore, and mentally fried from processing too much information while giving away too little.
My skin feels tight, my nerves raw. The constant vigilance—watching my words, guarding my reactions, scanning for threats—has drained me more than I want to admit.
Caleb steers me into the Barracks kitchen with a casual arm slung around my shoulders.
I tolerate it for exactly three seconds before shrugging him off, but there's no malice in the gesture. It's just habit—a boundary as natural to me as breathing.
The kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of something savory and slightly burnt.
A long wooden table stretches across one end of the room, already set with mismatched plates and worn flatware. It looks strangely domestic for a place built on tactical precision and combat training.
And at the stove, stirring something in a massive pot, stands Logan.
Wearing a black henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows, revealing corded forearms marked with the faint white lines of old scars. His expression is locked in a frown that could curdle milk. The intensity in his glare sends an unexpected heat down my belly.
I lean toward Caleb, keeping my voice low. "He cooks like he glares?"
"Worse," Caleb mutters back. "But we eat it anyway."
As Logan plates up something vaguely chili-adjacent, Caleb ducks into one of the kitchen drawers and pulls out a foil-covered tray. With a flourish that reminds me of a stage magician, he peels back the silver covering.
"Fear not," he announces to the room at large, "salvation has arrived—courtesy of Lucia Calderon, age twelve, mouth of a trucker."
He clears his throat and adopts a high-pitched voice with exaggerated sass: "Even tough guys need carbs."
The tray holds cinnamon rolls—homemade, golden-brown, still glistening with melted frosting.
The sight and smell hit me like a memory I didn't know I had—of Sunday mornings before everything fell apart, of kitchens that felt safe, of a world where sweetness wasn't suspicious.
Caleb's performance earns a round of snorts and grins from the team members gathering around the table.
Even Logan's scowl softens—barely, but I catch it.
A microscopic relaxation around his eyes before he locks it down again.
"They're still warm," Caleb adds, shoving one toward Elias as he takes a seat. "And before you ask, yes, I already called dibs on the gooey one."
"You mean the one Lucia clearly meant for someone who actually survived adolescence with humility?" Elias deadpans, accepting the plate with a small smile.
"You wound me, Mom," Caleb clutches his chest.
I hover awkwardly at the edge of the gathering, old instincts screaming to keep my distance. But then Knox—silent, watchful Knox—slides a plate in my direction without meeting my eyes. Not an invitation, exactly. More like begrudging acknowledgment of my existence.
I take it carefully and find a seat where my back is to the wall and I can see both exits.
The chili is edible—barely. I take a bite and can't help myself.
"So this is what tactical training tastes like," I say with a smirk, just loud enough to be heard across the table. "Survivable, but just barely."
Logan's head snaps up, his glance sharp enough to flay skin.
Caleb clutches his cinnamon roll to his chest, miming a swoon. "Thank God for Lucia. This, friends, is what heaven tastes like after Logan's culinary hell."
