Chapter Twelve #2
He hadn’t heard me come in—was too focused on whatever he was doing to the pipe that connected the main drain to the subfloor channel.
His mouth was set in a flat line, his eyes narrowed behind the headlamp beam, one hand braced against the foundation while the other worked the trenching tool through the packed soil.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him without announcing myself.
The greenhouse was warm—hot, really, the kind of humid heat that came from plants breathing and soil holding moisture and glass trapping both under the Montana sun.
Sweat had darkened the collar of Cruz’s t-shirt, was tracking down his spine in a line I could follow without trying.
“The coupling’s cracked,” he said without looking up, his voice carrying in the quiet greenhouse. “Where the main line connects to the foundation drain. Probably happened during the spring thaw—ground shifted, pipe didn’t. Water’s been pooling under the subfloor instead of running to the sump.”
He delivered it like an operational report—not “I fixed it” or “you have a problem,” just the facts as he’d calculated them, laid out in the order that made the most sense.
I’d been tolerating the drainage issue for two months—had noticed the damp that collected along the eastern wall after a rain, had filed it with the other small problems that weren’t worth the time it would take to fix them.
Had adjusted my watering schedule to compensate, had moved the most sensitive seedlings to the west side of the greenhouse, had done exactly what I’d been trained to do in the field—accepted the limitation and worked around it rather than spending resources I couldn’t afford to replace.
I hadn’t mentioned it to Cruz. Hadn’t asked him to look at it. Hadn’t done anything except notice that he’d disappeared after lunch and reappeared in greenhouse four with a headlamp and a trenching tool and the intense focus he brought to tactical problems.
“I replaced the coupling,” he continued, still without looking up. “Added a secondary drain at the low point. Won’t flood again, even if we get that three-inch rain they’re predicting for Thursday.”
He’d fixed it. Not made a temporary repair or suggested a workaround or pointed out that the problem wasn’t worth the resources it would take to solve it. Had just diagnosed the issue, collected the right tools, and executed the solution with the same quiet efficiency he brought to everything.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, the words coming out more clipped than I’d intended.
Cruz looked up then, his face giving away nothing. “I know,” he said. Then he turned back to the drain, one hand already reaching for the pipe cutter on the ground beside him. “Won’t take long to seal it. Twenty minutes, max.”
I stood in the doorway for another moment, watching him work—the careful way his hands moved through the space, the careful attention he brought to each connection, the methodical precision that reminded me of the way he’d checked his gear before the Istanbul mission.
Then I moved on to the next greenhouse, where the Belize seedlings were showing their first true leaves—tiny, perfect ovals with serrated edges, the lush green that meant they were taking to Montana soil the way they were supposed to.
The grow-light panel sat in the far corner of the greenhouse, its timer blinking red at three-second intervals—a pattern that meant the relay sequence was off.
I’d been meaning to fix it for weeks—had noticed the lights cycling at odd hours, had filed it with the drainage issue and the loose hinge on the tool shed door and the dozen other small problems that weren’t worth the time they’d take to solve.
I’d gotten as far as opening the panel cover three days ago, had stared at the tangled mess of wires for approximately seventeen seconds, then closed it again and gone back to checking the soil pH in tray seven.
Now the panel was open, the wires neatly sorted by color and function, the timer reset to the correct sequence. I checked it without touching anything—blue to green, green to yellow, yellow to the main board—then closed the cover with careful attention.
The lights cycled on immediately—trays one through six, then seven through twelve, then the overhead fixtures that kept the temperature stable after dark. A perfect sequence, running exactly as it was supposed to, for the first time since I’d installed the system eight months ago.
I hadn’t asked Cruz to look at it. Hadn’t mentioned the problem at all. Had just come back from town to find the greenhouse running exactly as it was designed to, the lights cycling in sequence, the temperature holding steady at sixty-eight degrees.
I moved through the rest of the morning on autopilot—checking soil pH in the starter trays, adjusting the water schedule for the mature plants, making notes on the clipboard that hung from the center post. By the time I finished, the light had started to fade—sky going from blue to gold to the deep purple that meant sunset was twenty minutes away.
The kitchen light was on when I came home—a warm glow visible through the window, spilling across the gravel drive in a long rectangle.
I stood on the porch for a moment, wiping my boots on the mat, listening to the sounds that came from inside—water running, something sizzling, the soft thud of a cabinet closing.
Cruz was at the stove when I walked in, one hand on a pan handle, the other reaching for a spice jar on the shelf above. He didn’t turn when the door closed behind me—just nodded once, acknowledging my presence without breaking his rhythm.
“Dinner in five,” he said, his voice carrying over the sound of whatever was in the pan. “Sit if you want. Water’s on the table.”
I moved to the sink instead, washing my hands with careful attention while Cruz finished whatever he was making.
The kitchen smelled different—garlic and something with heat.
Not the utilitarian rotation I’d been surviving on since the nausea started—plain rice and crackers and whatever required zero effort—but actual food, the kind that took time and attention and someone who gave enough of a damn to stand at a stove for more than seven minutes at a stretch.
I dried my hands on the towel hanging by the sink, then turned to find Cruz moving toward the table with two plates balanced in one hand. He set them down with careful attention—mine positioned exactly where I usually sat, his across the table, a water glass already waiting at each place.
“Eat,” he said, not quite an order but close enough that I felt my spine straighten in automatic response. “It’s better hot.”
I sat down without arguing, because Cruz was right—the food would be better hot, and I was hungry in a way that came from forgetting lunch entirely.
The plate in front of me held actual food—chicken in some kind of sauce with garlic and tomatoes and what looked like three different kinds of pepper, next to rice that wasn’t just white but had things in it, green things and orange things and whatever else Cruz had decided belonged there.
I took a bite without ceremony, then another, then a third when the first two stayed down.
The flavors hit in sequence—garlic first, then heat, then the tang that came from tomatoes cooked exactly long enough.
Not the kind of food you made when you were just fueling a body, but the kind you made when you wanted whoever was eating it to notice what was on the plate.
Cruz watched me without commenting, his own fork moving through the same careful arc—bite, chew, swallow, repeat. His face gave away nothing, but something in his posture had eased slightly as I kept eating.
“Where’d you learn to cook?” I asked after the fifth bite, the question coming out before I could stop it.
Cruz shrugged, his eyes on his plate rather than my face. “My mother,” he said. “Then the Marines. Then Sterling’s team. Someone has to feed five men living in four hundred square feet, and Nguyen burns water.”
The answer landed somewhere behind my sternum—not quite a physical thing, but present enough that I had to look down at my plate to hide whatever had just happened to my face.
Cruz had cooked for Sterling’s team. Had stood at stoves in safe houses and bunkers and the places men like us ended up when things went sideways.
Had made food that required actual effort when the alternative was protein bars and whatever came in a foil packet.
I ate the rest without speaking, focusing on the way the flavors worked together—garlic and heat and the careful balance of acid that kept either from overwhelming the other.
Cruz did the same, his attention on his plate rather than my face, giving me space to process whatever was happening without having to name it out loud.
We cleared the table together—Cruz taking the plates, me handling the glasses, both of us moving through the kitchen with the quick efficiency that came from not having to discuss who would do what.
Then Cruz was at the sink, running water over the pan he’d used for the sauce, and I was drying the serving spoon with careful attention, and neither of us was saying anything about the fact that I’d just shared a meal Cruz had made specifically because he’d noticed what I’d been eating—or not eating—for the past three weeks.
The one o’clock nap arrived without announcement. I was standing at the kitchen counter, one hand on my lower back where an ache had taken up residence sometime around week ten, when the clock above the stove chimed the hour. One distinct tone, then silence.
I was halfway up the stairs when I heard Cruz behind me—not following, exactly, but moving in the same direction with the sound that meant he’d made a decision and was executing it.
I didn’t turn around. Didn’t ask what he was doing. Didn’t do anything except keep putting one foot in front of the other until I reached the bedroom door.