Page 154 of Operation: Defiance

He moves around me with deliberate care, setting out bowls, checking the rice, adding another ladle of broth. The kind of easy coordination you only get when two people understand how to share space without crowding one another.

The scene is so achingly normal, my throat tightens before I can brace for it.

By the time he tastes a small spoonful and nods, the trembling in my hand has eased.

So has the buzzing under my skin.

At the table, the risotto feels…manageable. Food without conditions. Warm and comforting without being fussy.

I take a spoonful. My body doesn’t flinch. A slow, tentative wave of relief moves through me, enough that I try another bite. And another.

By the time I set my spoon down, I’ve finished the bowl—more than I’ve managed since escaping. My stomach holds steady. My breathing stays even.

Asher notices, but his approval is quiet. Just a small shift in his expression, like he’s cataloging all the ways I’m coming back to myself.

“That enough?” he asks.

“For now.” I nod. “It felt…good. Real.”

He doesn’t press. He just finishes his serving and rises to clear the bowls.

“I can help,” I say, pushing my chair back.

“You can relax,” he counters gently. “There’s not much to do.”

I nod. He’s right. And my body is so worn out, I’d probably break any dish I picked up at the moment.

“What do you do when you’re not…working?” I ask, needing something to occupy me besides staring at the walls. Or at him.

He pauses mid-reach for a pot, glances over his shoulder with the specific focus of someone deciding how much to say.

“Depends on where I am,” he says. “Safe houses don’t exactly come with hobbies.”

I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Okay. But when you’re not in one of these places?”

Asher rinses the pot, sets it upside down to dry. “I spend my life in places like these. I haven’t had a permanent address in…ten years. But, if I’m not actively working, I cook.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Not like this. Intricate recipes that require things like kitchen torches and double boilers and mandolines. Cooking keeps my hands busy and my head quiet.”

That tracks. A man who moves like precision personified would take comfort in recipes with rules.

“And when you’re not cooking?”

He leans a hip against the counter, crossing his arms loosely, settling in to the conversation. “I hike when I can. Long trails. Places without people.” Something flickers in his expression. Not darkness. Memory. “My dad used to take me out when I was a kid. Learned early on that the world makes more sense when your feet are on dirt instead of concrete.”

It’s the most personal thing he’s said about himself, and my chest tightens with the weight of the trust he’s giving me.

“So you disappear into the woods,” I murmur. “That’s your peace.”

“Sometimes.” His gaze meets mine—steady, unguarded for once. “Other times, I read. Old paperbacks. Half of those shelves were filled from discount bins near the ferry dock.”

I glance toward the living room, where I’d noticed them earlier but hadn’t processed the variety—mysteries, travel journals, one dog-eared sci-fi trilogy. And half a dozen boring, dry, systems manuals.

“That’s more normal than I expected,” I admit quietly.

He smiles—small, real. “Normal’s underrated.”

The tension in my shoulders loosens another notch. The urge to hold myself upright against invisible walls finally eases.

You still hungry?” he asks.