He eats, slow and lazy chewing, like he isn’t as starving as I was.
He gives no answer.
I should have worded my wonder better.
What I really meant is—
“How much longer?”
He lowers the spoon to the bowl.
He eats like he has time, not like I did when I scarfed down the stew and licked the bowl clean.
Does he not get as hungry as I do?
It’s another question burrowed away someplace in my mind, because he’s, well, jacked.
Muscle packed into marble.
So he would need more calories, he should hunger more than I do. But he eats like he knows his next meal is a sure thing, like he can take his time, and so he does.
I eye the bowl, as though I can see the stew within it through the porcelain if I stare hard enough.
My mouth waters.
“Not long,” he says, then he leans forward…
And hands me the bowl.
Water splashes.
I sit up straight.
But that same urgency isn’t in my slow-moving hands as I reach out.
The moment my fingers touch the bowl, I snatch it as though he’ll steal it back from me.
He doesn’t.
And I look down to find about a quarter of the stew left.
I’m not as quiet or slow about finishing it off as he was.
Samick sinks back against the wall and watches me devour the stew. “Two weeks.”
My brow furrows.
Two weeks is a long time all things considered, like constantly fucking trekking through darkness and relying on him to keep me, not just alive, but safe.
Still, it’s nothing compared to the time already gone—since I’ve seen her.
“Two weeks,” I echo, “and I’ll be back with Bee?”
He nods once, almost disinterested.
But he’s not disinterested.
I know, because he talks to me. He answers my questions when he doesn’t have to. He speaks when he can choose to be silent.
