She took another bite and didn’t look at him. Say something. Anything. Change the subject before he noticed the heat creeping up her neck.
“Oh!” She jumped up, remembering. “I have something.”
The little cake sat on the counter where she’d left it, wrapped in the vendor’s cloth. She brought it to the table, unwrapping the small golden pastry. It smelled sweet, with spices she didn’t recognize.
“What is it?”
“A cake. The vendor at the market gave it to me.” She found another knife, started cutting it in half. “Said it brings sweetness to new homes.”
His hand covered hers, stopping the knife. She looked up, found him frowning.
“It was given to you.”
“So?”
“So you should eat it.”
She stared at him. “But you don’t have any.”
“I don’t need cake.”
“Nobody needs cake. That’s not the point.” She pulled her hand free, and finished cutting. Two equal pieces. “It’s not fair for me to have cake when you don’t.”
Something shifted in his expression. Confusion, maybe. Like she’d said something in a language he didn’t speak.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I’m not... this isn’t about owing.” She slid his half across the table. “It’s sharing. That’s what you do when you live with someone.”
He stared at the cake like it might bite him.
“It’s just cake, Goraath.”
He picked up his piece, took a careful bite. His eyebrows rose.
“Good?”
“Sweet.” Not a complaint, just an observation. “Different from what we usually make.”
She tasted hers. He was right, it was sweet, but with a complexity underneath. Spices that warmed her tongue, a richness that reminded her of...
“Cinnamon.” The word was soft. “It’s not, but it’s close. My grandmother used to make cake with cinnamon in it.”
He’d stopped eating, watching her.
“Every birthday, she’d make this massive three-layer cake. The frosting was so rich you could only eat one piece without feeling sick, but I always tried for two.”
Her throat tightened. God, she hadn’t thought about that cake in years.
“When she got sick, I tried to make it myself. Couldn’t get it right. Then cocoa stopped being available in our district. It was too expensive, not considered and essential. I tried carob once.” She wrinkled her nose. “It wasn’t the same. Not even close.”
“When did she die?”
The question was gruff but not unkind.
“Eight years ago. Before everything went to hell with my job. She would have been furious about what happened. Probably would have marched into that office herself and given them a piece of her mind.”
“She protected you.”
