“And yet your body remains bigger. Stubborn of it.”
His nostrils flare. Not quite amusement. Not quite frustration. I have found a narrow ledge between the two. That’s okay. I can survive there. Kavor takes the sliver I added to his portion and returns it to mine.
I stare. He stares back.
“We can do this until second heat kills us,” he says.
I want to throw the root strip at his head, but that would be wasteful. I eat it instead. Aggressively. And he watches. Of course he does.
“This is strange behavior,” I say around the first bite.
“Eating?”
“Being supervised by a cave dragon with ration opinions.”
“Cavern Zmaj.”
“That is what you object to?”
“Yes.”
A laugh almost slips out, but I kill it, mostly. His eyes flicker. Damn him.
The food is dry enough to steal moisture from my mouth. I chew anyway. Slow and efficient. Not because he wants me to. Because my body needs it and because if I faint, he will be unbearable.
The second bite goes down easier. I notice that Kavor eats only after I swallow. Neither of us says anything because even the words would be too intimate.
Outside the shade, wind drags dust over stone. A fine red line crosses the threshold and breaks apart near my boot. The world keeps trying to enter. I take another bite.
My stomach tightens around it, unsure what to do with generosity. There is no generosity here, I remind it. This is ration logic. Mission logic. Survival logic. It’s not care or tenderness and not whatever my traitorous pulse thinks when his gaze follows the movement of my throat.
I reach for the water skin. Kavor lifts it before I touch it and holds it out. I freeze. His hand stills too. A beat. Then he shifts, setting the skin on the stone between us instead of offering it directly.
Permission. Or a coward’s version of it.
No. Not cowardice. Correction. He’s learning.
I pick up the skin and drink one measured mouthful. Then another before he can say anything. His shoulders ease. I do not like the small satisfaction that gives me.
“Do not look relieved,” I say.
“I am not looking relieved.”
“You are doing the quiet version.”
The corners of his mouth twist before he schools them back to stillness.
“Your phrase,” he says.
“I’m reclaiming it.”
“From me?”
“From the air. Don’t make this personal,” I say.
“It seems personal.”
“Everything seems personal when you stare like that.”
