I blink back at him, unfazed, and letting the fatigue slump me more and more into the rug.
He loosens a breath not unlike a soft sigh before he reaches for my torch—and switches it off.
I let my eyes shut.
And I must’ve drifted off, because when I open my eyes again, Arwyn has moved to sit against the sofa, and gone back to sleep, closer to Mika, and Samick is taking the water pot off the grate.
He fills it with the instant mash and stirs.
I close my eyes again—but only for what feels like a second before Samick grips my shoulder and gives me a gentle shake.
The look I aim up at him is moody.
His expression is unchanging.
He jerks his chin down to the rug—to the ribbons of steam dancing up from the bowl.
I scramble to sit up fast, threads of sleep slowly peeling away from me.
But I don’t give a fuck about sleep right now.
Not with the mouth-watering fragrance wafting over to me. I tug the bowl onto my lap, and my stomach gurgles with awoken hunger.
This doesn’t look like some over-the-campfire meal.
This is art.
It’s homemade.
I mean, duh, obviously, but like homemade in a way that comes from craft and talent, not like when I would throw a bunch of stuff into a pan and hope for the best and yet always end up with tasteless mush.
There’s nothing tasteless about this.
I expected the tuna to ruin it.
It doesn’t.
I can’t taste it, can’t taste anything beyond the rich sauce that he created from sachets of seasoning and stale gravy granules.
With each spoonful I shovel into my mouth, my appetite grows more and more.
I haven’t had food like this in a long time—even counting before the world ended. Bee worked nights a lot, and I relied on her to cook. Then, in that campervan, the meals were mostly from truck stops and diners and drive-thru fast-food joints. If we cooked in the van, it was noodles and canned shit, or anything we could fit in the air fryer.
Butthis…
This is a real dinner, a meal that nourishes me—and even when the bowl is empty, and I’m licking the sauce off the edges, I want more.
The pot is simmering on the low flames.
And it’s not empty.
But that’s for the two sleeping fae across the room.
The clatter of a ceramic and metal draws in my hungry gaze.
Samick digs a spoon into his filled bowl, untouched, then rises to stand.
My neck cranes as I look up at him.
