“I’m sorry this happened to you.”
He shoves his hands back in the pockets of his poorly sewn sweatpants. My hands were made for sewing book spines, not ripped clothes. I did the best I could with what I had.
“Can I ask more about you?”
He shrugs. “If you so wish.”
“Where do you come from?”
“We just came from the hoard.”
I tsk. “No, Bast, where did youoriginallycome from. Where were you born?”
“I was not born.”
A scowl wrinkles my brow. “You justmanifestedfrom thin air?”
“No.”
I’m ready to give him what for, but my phone chimes to tell me we’ve reached our destination. I turn off the navigation app and look up at the building before us. It’s just as cute as it looked in the Boogle pictures.
It’s a white, two-story building that may have been a house at one point. It has red shutters framed by green leaf designs, and the glass front door has a big, chibi radish holding a knife and fork with a hungry smile. My stomach groans in desire at the scent of something smoky and sweet beyond the door.
Bastian reaches for the handle slowly, gaining more confidence as he gets closer and I assume he can actually see it. I don’t want to ask him about his eyes. It seems like it would be a sensitive subject but…
“Did hunters harm your vision?” I ask.
He holds the door open for me, placing his hand on the small of my back to guide me in. The heat of his palm through my sweater has me sucking down a tiny gasp as nerves fire all the way up my spine. A shiver trails down in its wake when his hand leaves me.
“Two?” a woman in a red top with a white bow in her hair asks as she holds up menus.
I nod, my lungs still holding on to that little gasp as if keeping it inside me might make the feeling of his hand linger. The hostess leads us into the restaurant with dark wood floors and kitschy walls—but not in an eyesore kind of way, but a vibrant acceptance of the theme sort of way.
Radisheseverywhere.
The tables are covered in radish themed clothes, with red napkins and a short cup filled with water and a pair of live radishes. The greenery sprouting from the top makes a lively bouquet. Even the mystical Radish Spirit from one of my favorite movies sits on the wall at the back, pointing the way to the bathrooms.
“Here you are,” the hostess says, gesturing at a booth near the kitchen.
I sit on the side facing the door and slide to the middle. Bastian sits on my side, forcing me to scoot to the wall. The hostess blushes as she grins, setting the menus down in front of us.
“Have a great lunch,” she says, confusing Bastian’s choice of seat for something it isn’t.
Or is it?
I don’t know what’s happening.
“Ehm, don’t you want your own side?” I ask, gesturing to the other bench.
He licks his lips, stalling. “I want to be able to see the door.”
I’m sure it’s nothing more than a blur of light to him, but…
“What happened to your eyes?” I prompt again.
“You’re hard set on ruining your lunch, aren’t you?”
I tsk. “I read dark romance and horror. I’m not squeamish.”
