"Not hungry." Shrug. Won't meet my eyes.
"Interesting. Because you weren't hungry at breakfast either. Or dinner yesterday."
His jaw tightens. Flash of mortification across his face. "You keeping tabs on me now?"
"It's literally my job." I don't add that I've been tracking his meals since I noticed the pattern. The way he'll eat normally for days, then slide back into this.
"Well, do your job somewhere else. I'm fine." He sounds angry. He never sounds angry with me. Usually it's jokes or fear. He pushes the tray away.
I slide it back. "Eat."
"No."
I know this isn't the best approach. He needs professional help. But I'm angry and out of options, and part of me is desperate because I don't know what else to do.
I lean in, lowering my voice. "Let me make this very clear. Either you eat that meal, or I write you up for self-destructive behavior."
Anger flashes bright in his eyes. "It's not…"
"It is." I cut him off. "It's in your file, Liam. The eating disorder. The patterns. The hospitalizations. Self-harm through food is still self-harm."
Shock. Upset. Betrayal. My stomach churns. But I keep going.
"Mandatory counseling. Possible medication. Someone monitoring every meal. Is that what you want?"
Thin line of a mouth. We hold each other's gaze, neither looking away. He breaks first. Glances at the food, then back at me.
"One meal. I'll sit right here until you're done," I say.
For a moment, I think he'll push back harder. Instead, he picks up the fork, still angry, and takes a small bite of potatoes. His throat works as he swallows, like it's painful. I say nothing. He takes another bite, then another. Each one costs him something, but he continues.
Good boy.
"You don't have to stare," he mutters between bites.
"Why not? The view is pretty good."
He smiles at that. Small. "Harassment. I could report you to get you off my ass."
"You could. But then who would make sure to take care of you?"
Shock for a moment. Then he rolls his eyes, but the smile is back. "I don't need a babysitter."
"Obviously not." I watch him finish half the potatoes. I don't tell him that I understand more than he thinks. I'm self-destructive too, in my own ways.
"Satisfied?" He pushes the plate toward me, about a third of the meal gone. His eyes challenge me to demand more.
I consider it. Instead, I nod. "For now. Same time tomorrow, Marsal. I'll be watching."
"Lucky me," he mutters. Playful. It's always playful with him. Then, he’s quiet for a long time. I want to make him talk. He worries me when he's too quiet.
He does it on his own.
"I knew you liked me." He says it like a secret.
My heart picks up. No point denying it anymore.
"It's obvious by now, isn't it?" I say it quietly, facing my mashed potatoes.
