Ilys slowed, watching him.
The light cast the scene in a silky silver. She watched the careful way he opened the tin, the thoughtful way he stirred it with the tips of his fingers. Even that, especially that, was tender. His hands, broad and strong, moved with medicinal calculation. She imagined them on her again and had to look away before her face gave her away.
“Come here,” he said, not looking up.
She did, and sat down beside him on the cloak. He pulled her bodice down gently at the collar and inspected the wound with a furrowed brow. His fingers brushed her collarbone in the process, just a passing touch, clinical.
It lit her nerves like fire.
The salve cooled where it touched, but she found skin warm. Ilys felt it all, every light brush, every moment he steadied her with one hand on her arm or the small of her back, but when his thumb pressed gently along the edge of the bruising, she gasped.
“Sorry,” she offered without thinking. What did she have to be sorry for?
His voice came even, calm. “Don’t be.”
He finished the binding quickly, with the same measured efficiency as always, but she could feel the effort it took for him to keep it neutral, distant. His hands lingered a moment too long at the knot.
When she shifted, his fingers slid away.
She watched him pack the salve back into the satchel, sleeves still rolled, wrists dusted with dried herbs. His forearms flexed as he cinched the strap tight, and her eyes followed the line of movement before she caught herself.
“So now that you’re,” she paused, searching for the right word, “mortal… and eating, and drinking, and feeling things… Tell me all that you love about food.”
Death blinked at her, clearly caught off guard.
She smiled faintly. “Favorites. Least favorites. What makes you want to steal a second bite, what makes you think the world is broken.”
He spoke fondly, “I like warm bread. The kind with a crust you can tear. Soft inside. With butter, if it’s salted.”
She nodded, satisfied.
“And honey,” he added, almost sheepishly. “Not stirred into anything. Just as it is.”
“On a spoon?” she asked.
He looked at her. “Or fingers.”
Her brows lifted, amused.
He went on, voice quiet. “Stew that has been left to sit too long on the fire. When it thickens. And the meat falls apart. Roots cooked until they lose their bitterness. And blackberries. The kind you find half-fermented on the vine.”
She watched him now, not smiling exactly, but expression soft. “What do you hate?” she asked.
“Vinegar,” he said instantly. “It covers too much. Salt, when it’s careless. Burned garlic. And eggs. Above all, eggs.” Death paused and looked at her, mirth warming his glance. “And you?”
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Roasted pear. When it’s soft but not falling apart. With a bit of cream. And, cheese. Good cheese. Sharp, hard. The kind you have to slice thin.”
He nodded once, approving, imagining it himself.
“I like tart things,” she continued. “Cherries, green plums. And pepper, if it burns just a little. I’ve no taste for polite flavors.”
“What do you hate?”
She squinted toward the horizon. “Boiled cabbage. Lukewarm broth. Bread that crumbles before you bite it.”
He looked over, brow faintly raised. “Not fond of softness?”
She shook her head. “Not fond of disappointment. If it looks hearty, it should be. If it smells rich, it shouldn't taste like water.”
