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“Salt.”

“And?”

“Pepper.”

“That pause was criminal.”

“I considered turmeric.”

“You considered turmeric for eggs you already traumatized?”

“I didn’t use it.”

“Heroic restraint.”

He pushes the plate closer with two fingers. “Eat two bites.”

“Are you always this controlling in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“At least there’s consistency.”

I take one bite of egg. It’s not good, but it’s not fatal. Dalton watches me swallow.

“Don’t look proud,” I say.

“I’m not.”

“You are. Internally.”

“Yes.”

I hate that I laugh.

His phone buzzes before I can say anything else. He checks the screen, and the morning folds. I can see it happen. The softness doesn’t vanish, exactly, but it tucks itself away under the part of him that belongs to operating rooms and people waiting for him to know what to do.

“I have to go in,” he says.

“I know.”

“I wanted you to eat first.”

“That is both sweet and oppressive.”

“Yes.”

He steps away from the counter and starts gathering his things. His shirt from last night is on the back of my chair, his coat over the couch, his phone already in his hand. The apartment suddenly looks like it’s preparing to return to its usual size.

I hate that.

He comes back to the table before leaving, takes the banana peel from my plate, and puts the crackers within reach.

I look up at him. “Was that a goodbye or a nutritional rearrangement?”

“Both.”

“Romantic.”