Without uttering a single word, he leans forward, reaches across the table, and pulls the fork right out of my hand.
Before I can react, he shovels a mouthful of pasta into his mouth.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
“Seriously?” I say.
He talks with his mouth full. “This is good. What is it?”
“My lunch,” I snap. “You absolute menace.”
He grins around the bite, completely unbothered. Chews. Swallows. “Tell your dad he nailed it. A little more salt next time, though.”
I glare at him, heat creeping up my neck. “I hate you.”
“Liar.”
I roll my eyes and yank the fork out of his hand, reclaiming it like a small victory. “Get your own food.”
He shrugs, slouching further into the chair, his knee bumping mine. “Yours tastes better.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Nope.” He tilts his head, eyes flicking to my mouth for half a second before meeting mine again. “Usually I don’t talk after.”
I make a face. “Charming.”
He smirks, as if he ispleased with himself, watching me like this is the most entertaining part of his day.
I take another bite, keeping eye contact just to show I can.
“So,” he says, leaning forward, tapping the edge of my book with one finger. “Jane Eyre at lunch. That checks out.”
“Shut up.”
“Not judging,” he says lightly. “Okay, maybe a little. But it’s kinda hot.”
I choke slightly and cough, covering it with a scowl. “You are not allowed to call my reading material hot.”
“Too late.”
I look around the library, half-expecting someone to be watching us, but no one pays attention. We’re just two people at a table, talking too softly, too easily.
I sigh and slide the container into the center of the table, nudging it toward him with two fingers. Then I pass him the fork, even though every instinct I have tells me I shouldn’t.
He goes ahead and takes it regardless.
We eat like that for a minute, back and forth, with no rules. He leans in without asking, stealing bites that are way too big. I stab smaller ones when it’s my turn because I know he sometimes doesn’t eat at school since he can’t spare the money. All the while, I pretend I’m not hyperaware of how close he is or how the space between us keeps shrinking without either one of us saying a word about it. I notice how his gaze lingers and how it drifts to my mouth every time I take a bite, like he’s tracking the movement without meaning to.
It’s incredibly intimate.
“What’s happened, Bells?” he asks. “You don’t seem like yourself today. You haven’t for a while.”
I shrug because it’s easier than answering. I glance away, focusing on the bookshelf behind him. Anything but his stupid, perfect face.
