Betty comes back for our order. Ivan gets the hungry man special—eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, toast, pancakes, the works. I order the same, even though I know I won't finish it. She winks at me before walking back to the kitchen.
"She knows," Ivan says.
"Probably."
"Does that bother you?" He's watching my face carefully. "That someone knows? That we're not hiding?"
I think about it. Betty has served me coffee for two years, ever since I started coming to this diner. She's never asked about my life, never pried into why I'm always alone, but she's always been kind. A friendly face in a sea of strangers. A constant when everything else was chaos.
"No," I say, and I mean it. "It doesn't bother me. Let everyone know."
Ivan's smile widens. "I don't want to hide this either. I want everyone to know you're mine."
The food arrives quickly. Betty sets the plates down with a knowing smile and refills our coffee without being asked.
Ivan digs in immediately, and I watch him eat. He's shoveling food into his mouth, barely chewing, eating so fast it's almost violent. Like someone might take it away if he doesn't finish quickly enough.
I know that habit. The foster kid survival instinct that never quite goes away—eat fast, eat everything, because you never know when the next meal is coming. Because if you don't eat fast enough, someone bigger will take it from you. Because food is never guaranteed, never certain, never yours until it's in your stomach.
I figured he'd outgrown it. By living with the Reyes family and having regular meals. Yet here he is, barely chewing, practically inhaling his food, and I realize he still has scars too.
He looks up and catches me staring. Swallows what's in his mouth. "What? Do I have food on my face?"
"You're eating like someone's going to steal it. Like you're in a race."
He freezes, fork halfway to his mouth. Then he sets it down slowly, looking embarrassed and a little ashamed. "I didn't realize I was doing it. I thought I'd stopped doing that as much."
"That's the point. It's automatic." I push my own plate toward him. I've barely touched it, just moved food around. "Old habits die hard. Some of them never die at all. Here, have some of my food."
"You're not eating." His eyes go to my still-full plate.
"I don't eat much. I'm not really hungry."
"Jay—"
"I know. It's not healthy." I shrug. "I got used to going without for so long that now even when there's food, I just can't. My stomach doesn't want it."
Ivan looks at my plate, then at his empty one. "I eat too fast and you don't eat at all. We're quite a pair."
"We're a matched set."
He picks up my plate and slides it back in front of me. "Eat more. Please. For me. You don't have to finish it, but just try."
I look at the food. My stomach is clenched tight, the way it always is, protesting the idea of being filled. But Ivan is watching me with those blue eyes, and he said please, and I find myself picking up my fork despite everything.
"I'll try," I say. "I can't promise I'll finish, but I'll try."
"That's all I'm asking."
We eat in silence for a while after that with Ivan forcing himself to slow down, to chew properly, to put his fork down between bites. Me forcing myself to take bites I don't want.
When we're done and Ivan's finished everything on his plate, and I've managed about half of mine, he reaches for the check that Betty left.
"I've got it," I say, grabbing it first.
"Jay, you don't have to."
"I want to. Please let me do this."
