“Same as yesterday.”
This time, no response.
Ten minutes later, I bring out the dish myself. She watches my every movement like I’m carrying a weapon instead of a plate. When I set it down, her eyes don’t leave my face.
“You always serve off-menu to strangers?”
“You’re not a stranger anymore.”
She scoffs. “Right. I’m a regular.”
“No,” I say, settling across from her, uninvited. “You’re curious.”
She stiffens. Her fingers curl around the fork like it’s a handle for retreat. “Curious gets people dead.”
“Not here,” I say. “Here, it gets you fed.”
For a moment, we just sit there. The scent of fireroot hangs between us—hot, earthy, bold. She takes a bite. I watch her not enjoy it on purpose.
But her eyes close.
Just for a second.
Then she opens them, glares at me, and keeps eating.
“You always stare at your customers like this?” she asks, chewing.
“Only the ones who scowl when the food’s good.”
She huffs, a sound like a laugh that got lost in her throat.
Progress.
I get up before she can toss another verbal grenade. Go back to the kitchen. Let her sit with the food and her own disapproval. It’s safer that way. But I’m not done.
No. Not yet.
After she finishes half the eel, I send out a plate of root cakes drizzled with honey scorch and dusted in cracked pepper blossom. No explanation. Just a plate and a nod.
She stares at it like it insulted her grandmother.
Carefully, suspiciously, she lifts one with her fingertips and takes the smallest bite imaginable.
I pretend not to watch.
I hear it instead. That low sound. That barely-there exhale of surprise.
And then… she smiles.
Not wide. Not bright. Just the ghost of one, curling her lips for half a heartbeat.
But I see it.
And that’s it. That’s the moment I know.
I’m going to make her laugh.
Not just once.
