Toast. Her mouth watered, and she swallowed hastily against the vivid sense-memory; warm bread, slightly crunchy, slick with butter and some sweet spice. Her hands closed tightly around the plate before she nodded.
Derek went to the fridge and grabbed her some orange juice, putting the cup down next to her. “Well, I hope this is enough. You’re not allergic to anything, right?” He smiled softly.
His smile made her want to trust him; her memories made her shy away. She compromised by giving him a grave nod and eating his food. He was a pretty good cook — but then if he lived alone she supposed he’d have to be, or starve. And he obviously didn’t starve. She made herself eat slowly, keeping an eye on him all the while.
When she finished, she took her plate to the sink and rinsed it off, obeying some old habit, before turning to look at Derek again. Now would he let her leave?