“Eating is not wasting.”
“It is when we may need it later,” I say.
“We need it now.”
“You are impossible.”
“Yes,” he agrees.
He tears off a tiny piece of the dark coil and presses it against the pale ration strip. Then he sets both on the flat stone near the threshold. Heat begins working on the food almost immediately. The fat softens and darkens the dry strip. A scent rises.
Rich. Savory. Salted with something mineral and deep. My mouth floods. I look away so fast my neck hurts. Kavor says nothing. Smart male. Annoyingly alive one.
The smell fills the shelter. Not much, but enough to matter. Enough to remind my body that food can be more than fuel. That eating does not always have to be an act of accounting. That is dangerous. More dangerous than the crack.
“You did that on purpose,” I say.
“Yes.”
“At least deny it.”
“No.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Yes,” he says.
I stare at him. His eyes are on the stone shard, but that almost-mouth thing happens again. I should not want to see it in full, but I do. That’s another problem for later. I’m collecting them.
The ration strip softens at the edges. Kavor waits until the fat has melted into the hard ration and the seed mash has warmed enough to lose its dusty smell. Then he lifts the stone shard carefully, using claws where human fingers would burn.
He breaks the food into two pieces. Equal. Too equal.
I narrow my eyes. “You measured.”
“Yes.”
“With claws.”
“Yes.”
“That’s unsettling.”
“You prefer dishonest portions?” he asks.
“I prefer not being handled by geometry.”
“Then eat before I become more precise.”
The laugh escapes before I can kill it. Small. Cracked. Honest. Kavor stills as if the sound has touched him. I hate that he heard it like it mattered. I hate more that it did.
He offers me one piece on the shard. Not to my mouth. Not into my hand. Just close enough for me to take. Choice. Always now, choice.
It’s getting harder to hate him properly. I take the food. It’s warm, which is the first offense.
