Soft. Fresh.
He watches me chew with an intensity that makes my face go hot. His eyes track the movement of my jaw. My throat when I swallow.
I've been looked at before.
Appraised.
Assessed.
This isn't that.
This is something else entirely.
"Good?"
I nod. Don't trust my voice.
He picks up another piece.
Sure. Why not. Mad god hand-feeding me on a kitchen counter—add it to the list of shit I never expected to survive.
"I can feed myself." The words come out muffled around bread. Very dignified. Really selling the competent adult angle here.
"I know you can."
"Then why—"
"Because I want to."
Oh.
That's—I don't know what to do with that. I don't know what to do with any of this.The bread, the cheese, his hands, the way he's standing close enough that his hip brushes my knee every time he reaches for the plate. I'm keeping count. I don't want to be keeping count. Four times now. Each one a small shock of contact that sends shocks through my limbs.
He holds up a piece of cheese. I take it, and his fingers brush my lips.
My whole body goes warm. Not my face—everything. All at once.
"You're not eating." His voice is low. "Why did you stop?"
Because you're touching my mouth and my brain is short-circuiting. Because—no. I'm not finishing that thought. I'm not thinking about why this feels like something when it shouldn't feel like anything.
"Just chewing."
"You stopped chewing thirty seconds ago."
"I chew slowly."
"You don't."
I swallow. It takes effort. "How would you know how fast I chew?"
"I've been watching you."
Of course he has. Of course he's been learning my chewing speed along with everything else. Why wouldn't he. Totally normal god behavior.
He holds up another piece of bread with fruit on top this time—something dark and sweet-smelling.
"Open."
