I glare at him.
He looks back like he can out-stubborn me while half broken.
“It makes me feel better,” he says.
And that does it.
I sigh and set the plate on the side table carefully, then step in close and ease myself down across his lap like I’m defusing a bomb. Trying not to jostle anything.
His arm comes around me immediately.
“Happy?” I mutter.
“Yes,” he says, like it’s obvious.
I grab the plate again and balance it the best I can.
“You’re going to eat,” I tell him.
He makes a sound that could be agreement or not.
I don’t care.
I scoop up a small bite—potato first, because it’s the safest—and bring it toward his mouth.
“Open,” I say softly.
He does without arguing.
Thank God.
He chews slowly, testing, and I watch his throat work like I’m waiting for him to wince.
He doesn’t.
When he swallows, he exhales through his nose, and the tension in my shoulders drops a fraction.
I bring another bite with a carrot this time.
Then, finally, a sliver of roast.
His eyes close for a second as he chews, and for half a heartbeat, it looks like relief.
“Mm, what is that?” he asks. “Roast?”
He opens his good eye and focuses on the plate, seeing it for the first time.
“Yes,” I say.
He looks up at me.
“Where did you get roast?” he asks.
I pause, because the answer feels surreal even to me.
“I made it,” I say.
His gaze sharpens, even if it’s only one eye.
