She never said she was sorry, not for those fights. She could have apologized for anything else -- but not for that, not for fighting for her Doctor.
But he'd cooked again, and despite the lingering anger, she couldn't deny that it smelled marvelous. Between shoving canned peaches in the pantry and tomatoes in the fridge, she glanced over toward what looked to be a rather magnificent lunch.
"Thanks," she finally said, breaking the bits of ice left in the air between them. She didn't forgive him for not helping, but... "I'm actually starving."
Skipped breakfast. Too busy shouting. She ran a hand through her hair and closed the fridge. Quick fingers made quicker work of folding the grocery bag, then she stashed it up in the cupboard above the fridge. He'd probably seen the peaches. She never asked him to cook, and never, ever asked for the pies he made... but when she brought home the ingredients for pies, he usually always made them.
Part of her knew she was being unfair to him. Part of her knew she was being cruel. The other was still so, so angry that he wasn't her Doctor. Every now and again, she found herself reaching for his hand, before she stopped herself. Sometimes her skin ached, ached as if she'd been bruised, and it was his fault for not being him.
She got out some glasses and started putting ice in them.