Page 31
I look down at myself.
Clean pajamas. Soft cotton against my skin, loose at the cuffs, smelling of the unscented soap Kain insists on buying in bulk.
My mouth tastes clean, too.
Kain brushed my teeth while I was out. Again.
Outside the windows, streetlights cast long shadows, painting stripes across the floor. Nighttime, though not too late. The lights from the house across the street are still on.
As I sit up, my body protests, but all the discomforts vanish when I spot my favorite bento from Umami Grill on the ottoman in front of me, the lacquered black box gleaming in the firelight.
Kain unpacking it must be what woke me up.
Three thin slices of salmon sashimi, fanned across a bed of shredded daikon radish. Pieces of teriyaki chicken glazed dark and glossy, arranged in a neat row. Two rice balls wrapped in nori, the seaweed stark against the white grains. Cucumber salad sits in its own small compartment, and another holds a side of salted edamame.
Hunger cramps my stomach.
The thin, lacquered chopsticks that Kain bought me three years ago rest beside the box. They’ve developed a slight warp from holding them too tight, but I refuse to trade them out, no matter how many times Kain suggests I try the wider ones, which he says I wouldn’t have to fight so hard to grip.
As I reach for them, my fingers cramp. My ring finger starts trembling again, and the numbness in my pinky has gotten worse since the competition ended. I flex both, but neither responds quite the way I want.
Still, they’re my chopsticks.
My first attempt fails, just as I expected. I pinch them together around a slice of salmon, lift, and watch the fish slide free before it reaches my mouth. It lands back in the box with a soft thud.
I try again, but my ring finger trembles harder, and the salmon skids out from between the sticks and drops.
“Fuck.” I set the chopsticks down hard enough to clatter and rub my fingers.
Pulse Riot really pushed me.
Kain appears from the kitchen with two glasses of water. He sets one on the side table nearest me, his attention settling on my hands as I position my chopsticks and make a third attempt.
The salmon slips free halfway to my mouth, and a frustrated whine rises from my throat.
“Should I get you a fork?” Kain offers.
“No. Chopsticks go with sashimi.”
I make another attempt, and this time, I can’t even get the piece of fish out of its little compartment before the top chopstick falls out of my grasp.
“It’s okay, Bunny.” He sets his glass down. “Want me to help?”
I stare at the salmon, imagine poking holes in it with a fork, and hang my head. “Yes, please.”
Kain knee walks across the ottoman and settles onto the cushion behind me.
His legs bracket mine, thighs on either side of my hips, and his chest rests against my back. Heat radiates off him through the thin cotton of his T-shirt.
His hands close over mine, adjusting my right hand so my thumb rests against the side of the bottom chopstick. His forearms press against the outsides of mine, warm skin on warm skin, and his chin hooks over my right shoulder, his warm breath caressing my ear.
Our hands move together, the chopsticks closing around a piece of salmon. He guides my hand up, slow and steady, and the fish makes it to my mouth.
I bite down, moaning at the cool, delicate flavor and the way it melts on my tongue.
“Good?” he asks, his mouth close to my ear.
I nod, mouth full.
