"It's scrap." He's across the room in three steps, taking it from my hand without touching my fingers, setting it face down on the shelf. "Leave it."
"That's not scrap. That's a bowl I can see light through."
"Paige."
"Who taught you?"
His jaw does that lock. The one I've memorized over seven days of coffee deliveries. Whatever answer lives behind it isn't coming out tonight.
Fine. Wild mustang. Pull your hand back first. Let him come to you.
"Bowls and cans," I say, unwrapping the foil. "Sit down."
"I've eaten."
"You've eaten what."
Nothing. That's the answer. Whatever was in those cans doesn't count.
"Where are your spoons?"
He gets the spoons.
He eats three helpings. Slow, careful, the same way he does everything, but three full bowls of elk chili and most of the cornbread, and each time he reaches for more, he doesn't look at me.
I let that be. Some things, you don't make a fuss over out loud.
"Elk?" he asks on the second bowl.
"Diego got it last fall. Whole bunkhouse freezer is elk, so there's been a lot of creative cooking happening out of necessity."
"It's good."
"I know."
His eyes come up. Something stirring behind them that makes the back of my neck warm.
"You always this sure of yourself?" he asks.
"Always. You always this convinced anything nice has a bill attached?"
The spoon stops. His face starts to close down, and my stomach drops, because there's a version of this where he thanks me politely and opens the door.
But he sets the spoon down. Looks at me.
"Yes," he says.
Just that. Bare.
Then the sky opens up.
Wild Peak doesn't ease into rain. It dumps. The whole roof goes to roar inside of ten seconds, and the cabin shrinks to just this table and two chairs and a man whose eyes haven't left my face.
I get up and look out the window. The two ruts I drove Serenity in on are already running with water.
"Road washes out at the second bend," he says behind me. "Twenty minutes, it'll be a river."
"I've ridden worse."
