The apartment smelled like actual food.
Not charred failure. Not questionable experiments. Actual, edible, somewhat appetizing food.
Zeph stared at the pan containing what could generously be called scrambled eggs with vegetables, his expression caught between suspicion and cautious pride.
The eggs weren't burnt. The vegetables retained some texture instead of dissolving into mush. The seasoning was… present. Not good, exactly, but present in a way that suggested intentionality rather than accident.
He scooped a portion onto his plate and took a careful bite.
Edible.
Genuinely, actually edible.
Not "I'm desperate enough to eat this" edible, but "I made this on purpose and it turned out okay" edible.
'Did I just cook something that doesn't taste like regret?'
He took another bite, analyzing the flavor profile with the same focus he'd applied to combat optimization.
