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Instead, he gestures, just slightly, to the bowl in front of you. “Put that sesame oil ya like on it. An’ the chili crisp, too.”
Your throat tightens. You hate how much that means.
“Don’t gotta, though,” he adds. “Just—don’t let me be the fella who ate two dinners by himself. Kinda tragic, yeah?”
You huff — somewhere between a laugh and a scoff — but the tension in your shoulders eases. You pick up the bowl, settle into the blanket more comfortably, and start eating.
Series
- Part 10 of miya²