"Excuse me, but I specifically ordered cheddar cheese, not Swiss. This is Swiss cheese."
Thomas looked up from the griddle, his pale blue eyes taking in the young officer with calm assessment.
"Yes, sir. My apologies. I can fix that right away, if you'd like."
Blake didn't move his tray. His expression hardened.
"This isn't a diner on shore leave. This is a United States Navy warship. We're underway. Standards matter. If you can't get a simple cheese order correct, what does that say about the rest of the operation here?"
A few sailors behind Blake in line shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances.
Thomas's expression didn't change. He simply nodded. "You're absolutely right, sir. Standards do matter. Let me get you a fresh burger with the correct cheese."
But Blake wasn't finished. He set his tray down with deliberate force, the metallic clang drawing more attention.
"I've seen you around the ship for the past few weeks, shuffling around, using that old-timer slang like you're auditioning for a nostalgia show. Are you here on some kind of volunteer program? Community service for retirees who ran out of pension money?"
The serving line went quiet. The casual chatter died. Even the cooks further back in the galley paused their work. The disrespect hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable.
Thomas's hands, which had been resting on the stainless steel counter, didn't move. His voice remained calm, almost gentle.
"Sir, if you have a formal complaint about my service, please direct it to the executive officer. I'm here as a civilian contractor under the ship's welfare association."
Blake leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping, but somehow becoming more cutting.
"A formal complaint? No, I'm going to make this very informal."
He pulled out his phone, holding it up as if preparing to record.