She blinked.
The word connected.
"Oh—" Her hand moved immediately toward the front of her dress, toward the pocket where she kept her coin — the practical, rapid movement of a woman who has just remembered an obligation. "Yes, I forgot— I'm sorry, I should have—"
"Eat first," he said.
She stopped.
"What?"
"I want to eat first." He looked at the tray. At the porridge. At the salad, the fruit juice, the cut vegetables. He looked at her. "Payment after."
She settled.
Nodded.
"Yes. Eat. Of course." She started to pull back, toward the other seat.
His arm stayed.
She stopped.
Looked at him.
"Where is your bedroom?"
The silence lasted two seconds.
"...What?"
His eyes moved past her shoulder. To the door on the far wall — the one she'd half-pulled during her son's settling, visible from this angle as slightly ajar, the edge of a bed frame showing through the gap.
"There."
