"Was mine."
"Oh."
We stare at each other. His face does something complicated. Cycles through shock, disbelief, annoyance, and lands somewhere near resignation.
I hold out the remaining half. "You want it back?"
"You bit it."
"Just the one side."
"Your teeth are in my sandwich."
"Technically the sandwich is in my teeth." The joke lands like a brick. His expression doesn't shift. I clear my throat. "I can buy you another."
"Can you buy me back the last ten minutes of my life?"
Fair.
I stand. The books are crammed under one arm now. The duffel dangles. The second crate sits crooked where I dropped it. My coat pocket's ripped further and the apron is definitely on the ground somewhere.
"I'm Stone." I offer my free hand.
He stares at it.
"I'm new here. Just arrived. Didn't mean to eat your food. Thought it was..." What did I think? That sandwiches appear in your hand when you're hungry? That the universe provides mid-stumble snacks?
"A gift from the pavement gods?"
"Something like that."
He takes my hand. Shakes once. His grip is stronger than I expect. Calluses on the fingertips. Musician hands.
"Rafe."
"Good to meet you, Rafe. Sorry about the sandwich."
"Sorry about your books."
I glance down. The spines are scuffed. One cover is bent at a corner that'll never quite flatten. But they're whole. Readable. I tuck them tighter against my ribs.
"They're fine," I say, shifting the books more securely against my side. They feel solid, reassuring. "Books are tougher than they look. They can take a beating."
"Unlike sandwiches."
"Unlike sandwiches," I agree, nodding solemnly. "Sandwiches are fragile. Delicate creatures. No structural integrity once an orc gets involved."
He huffs. Not quite a laugh. Close enough. The corner of his mouth twitches upward for half a second before settling back into that flat, unimpressed line.
"You said you just got here?"
"Off the shuttle about five minutes ago." I glance back toward the station, somewhere beyond the market stalls and the crush of bodies. "Still have that new-arrival smell. Confusion. Mild panic. Sandwich theft."
"And already making friends."
"I'm very efficient," I tell him, deadpan. "Set a personal record, actually. Usually takes me at least ten minutes to alienate someone."
This time he does laugh. Short. Surprised. He picks up his guitar case, props it against his hip.
