Page 129 of Operation: Defiance

Water filling a kettle.

The click of the burner.

Coffee beans hitting the grinder.

I didn’t know how much I missed the quiet routine of morning. Or…of anything after eight days of enforced chaos.

The rich, smooth scent of coffee curls around me as I make my way slowly—never far from the wall for support—into the main room. For a moment, my eyes sting.

I used to start each day with a cup at home. Good beans, ground the way I like them, brewed at the perfect temperature so they were never bitter. Sitting on my couch looking out over the mountains in the distance. It was as close as I ever came to meditation.

I miss that version of myself. The one who could truly relax. Who didn’t jump at every sound.

I want her back.

Asher stands at the counter, depresses the plunger on a French press, then glances over at me, tracking my gaze to the dark brew.

Without a word, he fills his mug with coffee and holds it out to me.

Another question where the answer doesn’t come with consequences.

I take it carefully, both hands wrapped around the porcelain. My stomach twists.

The taste sparks across my tongue. I only take one sip. A second would be too much. My stomach warns me it’s not ready for that yet. But the first…the first was perfect.

“It’s strong,” I murmur. “Tea is…probably safer today.”

“It’ll be ready in two minutes,” he says.

Our fingers nearly brush when I hand the mug back to him. My body doesn’t protest the proximity.

I file that away.

“What about food?” He leans back against the counter, hands loose at his sides. “Eggs? Toast?”

“Toast. I…I can make it. I want…” My cheeks heat. “I want to try.”

He doesn’t move toward the bread. Just nods, then shifts so I have a clear path to the toaster.

“Do you…want one too?” I ask.

Asher’s eyes crinkle at the edges. “That would be nice.”

Every step takes more concentration than it should. Opening the bag. Pulling out two slices, maneuvering them into the toaster, depressing the lever.

Asher removes the tea bag and carries both mugs to the table.

I manage everything except the butter. It’s cold, too firm for me to cut. But Asher doesn’t say a word. Simply pulls a knife from the drawer, and adds a pat to each piece.

I eat slowly. Small bites. My hands only shake a little. Asher slathers his toast with peanut butter before he sinks into the chair next to me.

“Where do you want to work?” he asks. “Couch or table?”

“Table.” I don’t hesitate. “This…I need to sit up. To feel…like I’m on solid ground.”

“Fair enough. If it gets to be too much, let me know. Taking a break doesn’t mean giving up.”

I crack a weak smile. “I’ve never been great at recognizing my own limits.”