Natalie asked, "When do you plan to make a move?" Cassian replied, "No rush. We wait until everyone drinks at the same time." She nodded. That was exactly what she'd been thinking. Rushing never worked—patience kept you alive. This wasn't like Cyril's gang with their hammers and cleavers—easy targets she'd gunned down in seconds. The base was different. Here, at least eight people openly carried guns, and who knew how many more were hidden in the shadows. Every last one of them had to be taken out at once. If she went for Kelvin after this, someone out of nowhere would put a bullet in her back. Cassian noticed how much she was enjoying her food, so he lifted his fork and took a bite himself. Natalie watched him closely. "How is it?" From last night's tomato meat pasta, she'd figured out Cassian had a refined palate. Competitive streak flaring, she wanted to know how her cooking stacked up. He swallowed and said simply, "Not bad." Just not bad? That was it? Natalie felt a little deflated. She pressed, "Be specific. What's not bad about it?" "The spaghetti is firm but smooth, the sauce is rich and balanced. But ... " He paused. "When you dilute the dry chilli flakes, a splash of chilli oil would bring the taste out even better." Natalie lifted her chin, took another bite, then sighed. "You're right."Cassian chuckled softly, drank a sip of lemonade, and added, "It's already excellent. Better than my chef's cooking." Her eyes lit up. "Really?" If his private chef said her cooking was better, that meant something. But then she remembered the pasta he'd made yesterday—flawless, not a single detail off. She deflated. "Still not as good as yours." Cassian nodded. "Mm. Not as good as mine." She blinked. No false modesty—just a straight-faced admission of his own superiority. She nearly laughed. She couldn't help but ask, "Are you a perfectionist? Whatever you do, it has to be the best?" He thought a moment. "I think you are." Even when it came to making food, she had to compete with him. She was seriously competitive.She scoffed. "Not me. I'm just naturally perfect. Hard to find flaws." His hand froze halfway to his plate. And then he remembered—her off-key warbling in the Greenwood Complex stairwell. His lips twitched. He couldn't hold back a laugh. If you counted that atrocious singing as part of her "interesting soul", maybe she really was perfect. For the first time, Natalie saw him laugh without restraint. Even his brows lifted, his whole face lighter, almost boyish. The cold, untouchable aura was gone, replaced with sunlight. She caught herself staring. But then it hit her—he was laughing at her! Before she could snap, Cassian pressed his lips together and said, "You really are perfect. The most unique girl I've ever met." A beautiful, harmless face masking the ruthless precision of a reaper. A woman who could pull a trigger without flinching—then sing horribly off-key without shame. Someone who looked like an ice queen, then turned around and grabbed his SUV like a street punk. Cassian couldn't even guess how many sides she had. And when Roderick had told him about the psycho with the gun cutting down enemies, he'd secretly thought—yeah, that must've looked incredible. Natalie realized he wasn't mocking her. His amusement came from somewhere deeper, something genuine. And damn it, she had to admit—his smile was dangerously good-looking.Cassian laughed for a bit, then stopped. He caught her staring again and immediately thought of her dog, Lucky. Like owner, like pet—definitely shallow for looks. It wasn't the first time he'd caught her zoning out at his face. Smirking, he asked, "Do I look good to you?" She said coolly, "Okay, I guess. Not as good as me." He blinked, then burst out laughing. "You're right. Definitely not as good as you." Dinner was wrapped in a light, easy mood. Natalie cleared the dishes and was about to head upstairs when Cassian called her back. "Natalie, my arm still isn't at full strength." She frowned, confused. What is this—is he trying to guilt-trip me?He pressed his lips together. "I can't hold a pan steady. Could I trouble you to bring me food for the next few days?" And then, like a man sealing a business deal, he added, "Since we've agreed to cooperate, meals together will help build our ... tactical chemistry." She almost laughed aloud. Using "chemistry" as an excuse to mooch? Still, she nodded. Fair enough—she had wrecked his arm. "Fine. But you supply the ingredients." A lot of the food she kept in her stash couldn't be taken out in plain sight. A soft smile curved his lips. "Deal. And I'll wash the dishes."