“Sorry. I woke up when you started… crashing around. And I—well, I got kind of hungry.”
“Shit. I didn’t even offer you anything when we got in.”
I opened the fridge. Not much to be proud of.
A couple beers.
More beer.
And—surprise—some beer.
I scratched the back of my neck.
“What do city people usually eat?”
She slid onto the barstool, half-asleep, hair all messy and perfect.
“Normal stuff.”
“That so? No green goop? No matcha latte, beetroot café, turmeric moon dust?”
“Cash, it’s three in the morning. I’m not looking for a stimulant. Do you have bread?”
“Bread!” I said, like it was the answer to world peace. “Excellent choice.”
I bent down, grabbed the loaf, and started digging through the fridge door.
“Let’s see… we got homemade butter. Goat cheese. And—wait for it—spring onions.”
“Perfect.”
“You sure? Not too… unladylike?”
She snorted.
“I don’t belong to any cult that bans onions.”
She reached right over the counter, snatched the spring onion out of my hand—and took a massive bite. Just like that. Standing there in my kitchen at 3 a.m., barefoot, hoodie, wild hair… chewing raw onion like a damn outlaw.
“Do you have milk? Or anything with zero alcohol content?”
I squinted at her.
“You trying to say I drink too much?”
“Well,Iwasn’t the one creeping around my own house half-drunk, terrifying my guest.”
“First of all, this is Dalmore. Round here, a man doesn’t even blink during sex without knowing where his gun is.
Second—alcohol disinfects. So if a hyena bites me in the middle of the night, I’ve got better odds of surviving.”
She paused mid-chew.
Trying to figure out if I was serious.
I didn’t help her.
Just turned around and poured myself a glass of water.
