I follow her out, wrapping a towel around my hips. "Practice makes perfect."
Her eyes rake over my chest appreciatively. "I like the way you think, soldier."
Getting dressed proves to be another exercise in distraction. Every brush of skin as we help each other with clothes sends electricity sparking between us.
I have to bat her hands away twice when she "accidentally" lets them wander while helping me with my shirt buttons.
Finally dressed, I grab my comm unit from the nightstand and shove it in my back pocket.
"We need to be always ready."
The words land like stones in still water, rippling outward with implications we've both been trying to ignore.
Reality crashes back in—Granger, the town, the danger lurking just beyond these walls.
But something in me rebels against letting it steal this moment. Just for today, I want to forget everything except the way she looks in morning light, the sound of her laugh, the warmth of her presence in my space.
"Come on," I say, heading for the kitchen. "Let's see about breakfast."
She follows, feet padding quietly on the hardwood. While I start the coffee maker, she opens the fridge, humming thoughtfully.
"What's for breakfast?" I ask, watching her survey the sparse contents.
She grins wickedly. "How do you feel about peanut butter and pickle sandwiches?"
I stare at her. "You're joking."
"Am I?" She pulls out the jar of pickles I honestly forgot I owned. "I'll have you know this was my specialty in college."
"That explains so much about journalists."
"Careful." She waves a pickle at me threateningly. "I might just make you try it."
"You wouldn't dare."
Her eyes narrow at the challenge. "Oh really?"
Before I can stop her, she's gathering ingredients: bread, peanut butter, those damn pickles.
I watch in horrified fascination as she actually constructs two sandwiches, slicing them diagonally with disturbing precision.
"Your move." she says, sliding a plate toward me.
I pick up half a sandwich gingerly, like it might explode. "If I die from this, I'm haunting you."
"Such drama." She takes a big bite of her own sandwich, maintaining eye contact the whole time.
I steel myself and bite down.
The taste is... indescribable. Sweet and sour and somehowwrongin ways I didn't know food could be wrong.
From Sloane's expression as she chews, I'm not alone in this assessment.
"This," I say after forcibly swallowing, "might actually be worse than my chili."
She takes another bite, clearly suffering through it out of pure stubbornness. "I think this could qualify for the Guinness Book of World Records. Worst breakfast ever."
That startles a laugh out of me. She joins in, and soon we're both giggling like idiots over our plates of culinary horror.
