"I know. That's why it's terrible." Her fingers curled into my shirt. "Okay. Okay. You need to eat, then, because whatever you did burned through everything and I can feel your reserves and they're at maybe forty percent, which is criminal, and I made a lot of food specifically for this exact situation."
She turned to grab a plate and I caught her wrist.
She stopped.
I felt her pulse jump under my thumb, a fast flutter against the skin, and I watched the color climb up her throat and spill across her cheeks. Four months of this and she still went scarlet every single time. It was, and I say this with the full weight of my objectivity, the most satisfying thing in my life.
"Thank you," I said. "For counting the days."
"S-someone had to."
"Nobody had to."
"Well, I wanted to." She tugged her wrist free and hid it behind her back like evidence. "Don't make it a thing. It's not a thing."
"Eleven trays, Emi."
"It's not a thing!"
