It had been almost a week since their last encounter, and while Hermione spent her day planting flowers around her new home, she glanced toward the shiny red motorboat that undoubtedly belonged to the other person on her island. After that minor altercation, she still hadn't seen the ferret. Not even a glance.
Hermione grumbled to herself about sneaky ferrets as she finished potting the petunias she planned to hang from the rafters of the porch. She thought they would look nice along with the lobelias she'd planted in the window boxes along her front windows. Hermione made her way backwards down the steps and onto the sand to see her handiwork.
The starting of an engine startled Hermione, and she whirled around, a comically shocked expression on her face. This expression immediately settled into a scowl of annoyance when she saw Malfoy gracefully stepping into his boat.
They locked eyes from across the stretch of beach, and if he'd contemplated saying something he didn't show it. Hermione, on the other hand, opened and closed her mouth as she considered what to say. In the end, she opted for silence.
In those few brief seconds before she turned and shot back inside, Hermione had noticed a few details she hadn't observed the first time.
For all the years Hermione had had the displeasure of knowing him, Malfoy was always well-dressed and his appearance was always impeccably neat. Today, she had noticed that his white button-down shirt was hanging from his already slim frame, and his cheekbones seemed more prominent than they had at the Battle of Hogwarts.
Something wasn't right, and while Hermione repeatedly told herself it didn't matter, she couldn't stifle her growing curiosity.
As she fixed herself a midday snack - apple slices with peanut butter - Hermione allowed her thoughts to drift back to the annoying blonde.
Personally, she had found that she was looking and feeling much better after only one month on the island. The War had taken its toll on everyone, but even a year and a half after their victory, Hermione had still been struggling to return to her former glory.
Now, she had successfully gained back nearly five pounds, and was significantly less paranoid than she had been in a long time.
Feeling an odd and unappreciated pang of sympathy for Malfoy, she decided that just this one time, she would extend to him a very small act of kindness. She knew it was simply her maternal and obnoxiously Gryffindor traits taking over, but she knew that in the end, he would still see her as the meddlesome, know-it-all Gryffindor Princess, and she kept that in mind as a small comfort.
….
...
Draco was no idiot, he saw the way she was looking at him like he was some fucking house elf that needed a proper dressing gown. Okay, so maybe he was a little sleep-deprived and underweight, but he was a grown man. He knew how to take care of himself, he just didn't care to do so at this time in his life.
Grumbling various obscenities as he tied his boat to the dock, he asked out loud, "Why her?" He was positive he could have suffered the presence of any other female. Even Loony bloody Lovegood would have been better.
At the outdoor market, Malfoy had been so focused on thinking about that bloody look of pity from the insufferable witch that he hadn't noticed he was scowling like someone had just kicked his hypothetical Puffskein until he raised his eyes and realised a young girl had been staring at him. She couldn't have been more than four, and she quickly redirected her curious gaze when they made eye contact.
Draco sighed. He didn't particularly want to be the intimidating man he'd grown to be. His life and upbringing had left him a hardened and extremely private adult who hid any and all feelings behind a well-practiced mask of apathy. It was how he survived.
Now held in her father's arms, the little girl chanced another look at Draco. He was ready this time and let a small smile take place on his lips when her round eyes landed on him again.
Stretching her head from behind her father's shoulder, she returned his smile with a cheeky, toothy grin of her own.
After that pleasant encounter, Draco felt much less doleful and treated himself to a bottle of wine - the only thing he bought - and began his walk back to the docks.
Maybe all hope wasn't lost for him.
Glancing up at the sky, which was beginning to take on various shades of orange and pink, Draco let his thoughts wander to his childhood as he walked.
As a Malfoy, there were certain expectations to be upheld. First and foremost was that he was educated on being a well-trained gentleman who exuded class and posture at all times. He vividly remembered chewing with his mouth open whenever his father wasn't looking, which both amused and irritated his mother.
Second was the uptaking of some sort of talent. His father has started piano lessons at the age of three and insisted that Draco do the same. He faintly remembered Lucius's rage when he'd come home to find Draco clumsily - and happily - plucking away at a miniature, classical-style acoustic guitar.
Guitar is for those who can't afford a bloody piano. Storming off into his study after blasting Draco's instrument to pieces, Lucius demanded that Draco's mother fix her mistake immediately. Draco clearly remembered the or else that was beneath his father's words.
Once his father was gone, his mother repaired the guitar and continued the lessons whenever Lucius was away. It was a small, private victory that his mother had the pleasure of winning against her controlling husband.
Draco recognised her efforts to provide a happy childhood for him, but she had so many obstacles in her way.
Always maintaining the image of the perfect wife for the public and her husband, she was able to convince everyone of her devout loyalty. Draco was only one who knew the truth, and at the age of nine, he vowed to always endeavor to make the right decision and follow his conscience, as she often advised him to do. They were co-conspirators until the Dark Lord came back to power had drawn an impressionable Draco to the wrong side.
After the War, his mother and himself were pardoned by the Ministry, much to his surprise. He knew his mother would be safe, but he had truly expected to find himself in Azkaban. His father was not so lucky.
His mother and father had been in love once, but she was relieved to be free from his control.
Draco had finally reached the island just as the last shreds of day disappeared over the horizon. He considered his mother's words before he'd left for Australia as he silently passed the know-it-all's shack, her bushy-haired silhouette visible through the curtains.
"Aim to live without regret. You only get one chance to live this life the way you want to. If you don't like something from your past, fix it."
She'd said that as she'd tried different colours for the parlour's walls. The Manor was hers now even if she didn't want it.
Draco had an immense respect for his mother, and although he hadn't quite figured out how he was going to rid himself of all his grief over what he had done during the War, he knew he wasn't going to live by the orders of someone else ever again.
Upon reaching his house Draco had one thing on his mind. That bottle of wine. He was so enraptured, in fact, that he didn't see the little bundle that had been left on his front steps.
Quickly jumping back and searching for whatever had nearly found itself crushed under his black dress shoe, Draco grunted with confusion at the bowl with a strange metal covering that was sitting innocently in front of him.
At the sight of the Muggle paper - he knew it was Muggle paper because of the peculiar blue lines - attached to the metal. Draco immediately thought of the know-it-all, which in turn prompted him to cast a magic detecting spell. Better to be safe than sorry, and he let out a sigh when he found that there wasn't any magic of the malevolent type.
Carefully levitating it, because he still wasn't sure he wanted to touch it, Draco made his way toward the downstairs kitchen.
Once it was safely set on the counter, he gingerly pulled the paper into his hands.
Even though you're a git, you need to eat, so I left you some of the spaghetti I made for myself.
The only magic I've placed on it is a heating charm and a charm to refill your bowl if you want more.
Oh, there's also a charm on it so it will disappear after ten.
P.S. That metal thing is tin foil, Muggles use it mainly to keep things warm.
Ambivalently eyeing the bowl, Draco considered his options. He could go to sleep hungry for no other reason than to be stubborn, or he could eat the Gryffindor's food and… eat.
"Just because I eat the food doesn't mean I have to be nice," he grumbled out loud to himself, because it somehow justified the way his stomach was starting to rumble.
With a sigh, Draco finally gave in and pulled the tin foil from the bowl and tossed it to the side. He would examine that later. Everything looked edible and properly made - not that he'd had spaghetti save for only a handful of occasions - the noodles weren't flobberworms and the tomato sauce was evenly mixed throughout. Altogether, it didn't look awful.
Continuing to quietly rant about meddlesome witches, Draco retrieved a fork from the drawer and took the bowl into the dining room and took a small, tentative bite.
A few minutes later Draco was thoroughly irritated, mainly because of how good the food was but also because… of how good the food was. Deciding instead to focus on tearing apart and analysing the letter, Draco continued to eat and reread what was on the wrinkled paper.
Scanning the first line, Draco was content with the fact that the witch was also justifying her actions… "You're still a git," was enough evidence that while she wanted to be her usual overbearing and intrusive self, she also lived her life believing she didn't owe any kindness or congeniality to the likes of him. She was conflicted. Draco also figured that after their interaction - that Draco had happily started to forget - the know-it-all realised that he wasn't completely evil and that she was wrong for believing he was going to attack her.
Deep down, she was trying to make herself feel better. Bloody, righteous Gryffindors.
The second seemed more for her own benefit than his. Granger was well-aware of the fact that he would immediately check for any sort of magic, so she either did it to reinstitute her intelligence and talent as a witch, or it was a habit for her to be a complete know-it-all and showoff.
Draco smirked as he meticulously spun the noodles onto the fork. The bowl was much emptier than he'd thought. He still hadn't decided if he was willing to refill his bowl, he wasn't sure how much that would hurt his pride.
After rereading the third sentence, Draco conjured the time. It was eight forty-seven. He considered attempting to remove the spell, but he knew it would be more time than it was worth, so he sighed to himself and silently agreed to play by the Gryffindor's rules. Why ten?
Was that the bookworm's bedtime? Draco tried to remember when he'd gone to sleep last night, but after a few moments of wracking his brain he realised he hadn't slept last night.
Carefully chewing the last bite of spaghetti, Draco glanced over at the tin foil. Well, now she had ruined the surprise, he didn't care to remain curious about it.
He wondered how her handy refilling charm worked, because he was much hungrier than he'd originally thought, and when he looked back, the happy little bowl was full.
Bloody know-it-all witch. He thought as he shoveled more food into his mouth.
Hermione was sitting at her island counter, The Importance of Being Earnest held in one hand and her fork in the other. She had read the book before, but she'd been much younger and hadn't really understood all of the plot. It was a much more enjoyable read now.
Taking the final bite from her bowl, Hermione decided to have just a bit more spaghetti. As she scooped some onto the serving spoon and began to drop it into the bowl the noodles simply disappeared.
Her immediate confusion was replaced with a small, satisfied smile. She hadn't expected him to request more, but she thought it couldn't hurt to leave the offer out for his consideration.
When ten thirty arrived, Hermione slowly raised her head and rubbed her eyes groggily. A sunny smile crept onto her face she saw the two empty bowls sitting on her counter. One was the serving bowl and the other was the yellow bowl she'd left with Malfoy.
…
...
The next evening, Draco meandered around the house like he usually when he was bored and had nothing else to do. It was around eight-thirty when he wandered into the kitchen and stared blankly at the cupboards. He'd never gone to the market like he'd planned, which left him with one old - and probably moldy at this point - Granny Smith apple that he'd set in some random, empty cupboard. Sighing to himself as he resigned to the fact he wouldn't be eating tonight, his thoughts wandered to the meal provided by the Know-It-All. His stomach grumbled.
Chiding himself once again for eating the bloody spaghetti, Draco summoned a glass of wine. For Merlin's sake, he'd had enough self control to keep himself as still as possible while enduring the Cruciatus Curse from the Dark Lord himself, yet he couldn't resist a bowl of fucking noodles. He was clearly losing his mind.
As he continued to sip away at his wine, he wondered if perhaps he could trick his stomach into thinking he'd eaten.
Living in the Muggle world certainly had its perks, but its one flaw was Draco's complete lack of knowledge when it came to Muggle life.
Raising the glass to his lips, he wracked his brain for the things he'd learned in the required Muggle Studies class. He scoffed as he rolled the alcohol over his tongue. Draco had never learned a damn thing in that class. He practically slept through it.
Just as he was beginning to thoroughly mull over his life choices, he felt a tingling at the nape of his neck, a signal that someone had stepped across his wards. Not just any someone, he knew, and as he twirled his wand between his slender fingers he considered what to do.
He knew it was the Gryffindor witch, not only from the obvious fact that there was no one else on the island, but he could also tell from the warning he received when it came to his wards.
It worked like this, when a wizard crossed over Draco's ward, he would feel a tingle, poke, or stab of some sort that alerted them of another wizard's presence. The aforementioned "alert" was generally unique to the wizard, and the severity of the warning tended to suggest the danger associated with them. He wasn't sure if that was the case with the witch.
Some would simply blast away at any intruder, regardless of whether they were friend or foe, some required passwords in order for others to pass across them, and some, like the wards used for Hogwarts to aid in deterring nosy Muggles, would simply rearrange the person's thoughts, thoroughly confuse them, and send them shuffling in the other direction. Draco preferred his own ward, his signature spell that he had created to protect the Manor during the more tedious parts of the War.
The Know-It-All's presence elicited a soft tickle at the nape of his neck. It was soft and scarcely noticeable, like someone's breath or fingertips gently grazing his skin. The first time she'd unknowingly stepped past the line of his wards, when she had been picking strawberries or something equally ridiculous, he'd only realised that tingling feeling had been an alert from his protection spells when he'd stepped onto his porch and spotted someone on his property.
When the irritating tingling stopped, Draco felt it was safe to venture to his front door and see what she had been doing lurking around the house.
Slowly opening the heavy wooden door, Draco automatically glanced down and was once again faced with tin foil. Glancing around with something akin to paranoia, he deemed the property free of nosy witches and bent down to pick up the turquoise plate.
Five minutes later, Draco sat at the predominantly unused table again, but this time he was eating "steak and baked potato" as explained in her accompanying - and again unsigned - note. The food was too good for Draco to feel even the least bit guilty.
He liked to believe that it was because of how hungry he was, but he knew her cooking was impeccable, and if he could, he would probably eat it for dinner every day. This was completely true when compared to the whopping nothing he had been eating most days before her arrival.
He had been desperate for food he didn't have to make himself, and the Fates had responded accordingly.
…
...
Hermione was waiting again, she was curious to find out what the surly Slytherin thought of tonight's selection. She was once again teetering on the brink of full sleep, her forehead resting on her copy of The Importance of Being Earnest, when his plate dutifully reappeared at ten thirty sharp.
The plate was empty apart from the potato skin and a few wayward pieces of food. With yet another triumphant smile on her lips, Hermione sent the plate into the sink.
While she had been making the dinner, Hermione had spent quite a while trying to figure out if her desire to feed the malnourished Slytherin was somehow indicative of a horrible side effect of a forgotten head injury. She was sure she'd been bashed around enough over the years that there must have been some overlooked concussion that was just now coming around to haunt her.
After mulling over all of the possibilities, she finally decided that she found it acceptable because she never actually never saw him eating her food, and she never gave it to him face-to-face. It made the entire thing much easier.
On her trek to his over-sized house she'd even imagined for a few fleeting moments that she was delivering a meal to someone like Harry or Ron. When she realised what she had been doing, she reminded herself that Draco Malfoy was not a war hero, he'd killed soldiers on her side. He'd taken the Dark Mark.
He'd watched her be tortured.
She wasn't doing this for any other reason than that she pitied him. Now that the war was over, he didn't have anything going for him. He clearly didn't even know how to cook himself a simple meal.
That night as she removed her Disillusionment Charm, cast a final Cooling Charm and pulled her comforter up around her shoulders, Hermione was feeling good about herself and her actions. She was a good person. Gryffindor to the core.
...
That's how it continued for the next few evenings, Hermione making meals portioned for two and dropping half off at Malfoy's doorstep. Every night she would dutifully justify her actions.
I can't knowingly let him starve, she would tell herself.
She found herself wondering what food he liked, there hadn't been one night where a plate of untouched food was sent back.
It had been a four days since they're odd ritual had started, and today Hermione was due to take a trip to the market.
When she didn't have too many things on her list, she preferred to take a quick trip to the supermarket, but when she had things like meats and fruits or vegetables she preferred the outdoor market that wasn't too far out of her way.
The market took up almost an entire block and just across the street was a butcher's shop that Hermione preferred over the prepackaged meat at the supermarket.
Oliver had once again left her to own devices, and the two had designated a time at which they would meet back up at the docks.
As she walked the uphill trek, Hermione made a preemptive strike against the sweltering heat and piled her hair up into a sloppy bun, and while there were still a few loose tendrils that were already starting to stick to her neck, it was better than having the full weight of her thick, curly hair suffocating her.
She waved at the locals who recognised her and took pride in the fact her social skills hadn't been stunted by living around the same people for nearly seven years. Apart from her general wariness of strangers created by the War and everything that had accompanied it, Hermione's ability to socialise was still intact. She'd expected it to be difficult interacting with Muggles, but she found it comforting to not be seen as the Hermione Granger.
On one hand, there were so many witches and wizards who had been affected by the Second Wizarding War, so there was an unspoken connection and understanding among them, but there was also, toward Hermione and the other closely associated with Harry a sort of morbid curiosity and fascination.
For some, they may have had their homes briefly invaded by Death Eaters, or been seized for questioning, and that was terrifying in its own right, but these people were sometimes too curious. What had happened to these people was probably the most scary thing they'd yet to experience, but they also knew that others had experienced much, much more, and led them to ask questions.
Wow, what's it like having looked Bellatrix Lestrange in the eye?
How close did you get to Voldemort? Did you touch him?
Were you really tortured?
Did you personally see that criminal Black cross The Veil?
Do you have any scars?
And that was only the beginning.
As she finally reached the market she was grumbling to herself for allowing her thoughts to once again wander off to all of the things she'd come here to avoid, or at least ease her mind about.
Attempting to hum, which she hoped would clear her mind and cheer her up, her tune came out as a cross between a sigh and a song that didn't do an awful lot in the way of deterring her cloudy mood. Hermione settled for a sigh that didn't make her feel any better, but it certainly didn't make her feel any worse.
She began at a stand that was selling strawberries and blueberries, and while the sampling of the sweet fruits didn't significantly brighten her mood, it was a solid start. By the time she'd made it to the butcher's, she was sporting a small, nearly inconsequential smile that didn't mean much to anyone else, but to Hermione, it was a small triumph.
...
The thunderstorms had returned, and they had returned with a vengeance. It was almost funny how easily Hermione could give up on her mission of putting a little meat on Malfoy's aristocratic bones.
The first storm had arrived late one night - or early one morning depending on a person's sleeping habits - and woke up Hermione with such a fright that her eyes momentarily welled up with tears.
She only felt guilty for abandoning her project for about two nights. By the third night she was starting to lose her wits, and had managed to think her way out of feeling guilty.
It wasn't her fault Malfoy couldn't be bothering to pick up a cookbook. She couldn't help the fact that his parents had smothered him with house elves and a neverending supply of hand-prepared meals.
Hermione had been almost okay the first day of storming, having spent her day in her favourite place - her blanket fort - reading and copying down her favourite poems. She even drafted a few never-to-be-sent letters to Harry and Ron.
By the second night she was already bored. Not only was she bored she still had yet to become desensitized to the thunder. Nearly every grumble and eruption of thunder startled her, even when she was warned by the flashes of lightning.
It was during the second night that she had copied down the every poem she could remember from memory, and had copied down her favourites from her various books of poetry. It was also during the second night that she remained fastidiously awake, because sleep the previous night had been filled with bone chilling night terrors.
The third day began as drearily as the last one had, and Hermione was beginning to wonder what Mother Nature was trying to tell her. After fixing herself a plate of toast and jam and glaring out the window at the mercilessly pouring rain, Hermione was beginning to wonder what she should do.
She knew, of course, that was being a bit overdramatic. It was only rain. Most people were perfectly fine with a bit of rain, maybe even a thunderstorm, but, for whatever reason, cloudy skies and all-day rain put Hermione in a generally foul mood. She knew it was partially because of the lack vitamin D, but it seemed that no matter how much orange juice she drank on a rainy day, her mood remained resolutely pitiful.
She managed a bit of sleep on the third night, and her nightmares weren't as terrifying as they had been the first night, these had just been memories. Her mind replaying some scenes she'd rather not revisit.
By the fourth day Hermione had foregone her daily routine of casting a minor Disillusionment Charm over her forearm. There was really no point in covering the scar. It wasn't like she'd never seen it before. She preferred not seeing it. It was a grotesque reminder of her "dirty blood", a reminder of why she had always felt just that much more compelled to outperform everyone else and prove her worth in the Wizarding World. She was more than just Harry Potter's other best friend.
Hermione spent the afternoon laying on the floor in the center of the living room, changing the colours of the walls until she settled on one that she liked. It had taken quite a while.
By the time the sun had set and another thunderstorm had rolled in for the fourth night, a knock came upon Hermione's front door.
Even though she was certain she knew who it was at the door, Hermione still felt a quick a short-lived wave of anxiety wash over her as she quickly stood from the sofa she had been curled up on.
Acutely aware of the sound of her feet shuffling across the floor, Hermione rolled her shoulders back and pulled herself tall. Malfoy already knew about her fear of thunderstorms, and she certainly wasn't going to allow any indication that it was affecting her.
While she knew that believing she'd be able to stop herself from squeaking or jumping was a longshot, she definitely didn't want to give Malfoy any leverage against her.
Before opening the door, she let out a small sigh, her hand tentatively grasping the door knob.
…
...
The door opened and she emerged just enough to lean against the door frame. Draco was observant by nature, but his years spent with the lovely Voldemort & Co. had honed his skill into an ability to take in as many minor details as possible as quickly as possible.
The know-it-all's hair was a mess. The other few times Draco had seen her, her hair had been tamed into gentle curls and waves, but at this moment…. he could easily imagine a few birds nesting in the wreck.
Judging by the dark circles under her eyes, Draco wasn't the only one around here who wasn't getting much sleep.
Despite her rigid posture and ever-present expression of stubbornness and pride, her utter-exhaustion and anxiety were glaringly obvious.
"Hello, Malfoy," she greeted him with about as much hospitality as a hippogriff, and after staring him down in that unnerving way of hers, she briefly turned her attention to the quickly darkening sky.
Deciding against returning the half-assed salutation, Draco instead replied, "Would you mind showing off your impressive talents and irritating wealth of knowledge and show me how to cook. I'm bloody starving."
Her eyes sharpened at the back-handed compliment but she didn't otherwise acknowledge it. "Planning on going out of your way to piss me off?" she asked curtly.
"Not currently."
"Fine."
...
Draco stood beside Granger at her Muggle stove, his hands shoved into his pockets as he listened to her, her voice having taken on the all-too-familiar know-it-all tone.
"Alright, first you turn on the stove," she began, but then as she stared at the frying pan she seemed to change her mind. She turned slightly to look at Draco. "Well, I suppose the very first thing you do is put your pan on the burner," her eyes were shining with the knowledge of some unshared joke, and because he found such information extremely useful, he decided against questioning the Gryffindor's humour - or lack thereof.
"Right," she said to herself as she stared down the square hunk of metal that had yet to do anything useful besides hold a frying pan. Draco was starting to question her sanity.
"The second thing you do is turn on the burner," she told him as she twisted the dial on the front of the stove. There was a brief clicking sound and then… flames.
Small flames to be sure, but nonetheless, there was fire blooming from the tin box Draco had previously thought to be completely useless. He wanted to ask how the hell it was doing that, but didn't want to give her any more reason to feel like she needed to tutor him on the many delights of Muggle life.
She continued to teach him how to make a grilled cheese, which sounded not only appallingly Muggle, but also low class.
As explained each step he resisted the temptation to ask all of the questions each thing she explained elicited.
He considered zoning out and reconsidering his decision to make an appearance here, but apples could only do so much, and in all honesty, a bit of human interaction didn't sound terribly awful.
The tricky part was paying attention but giving off an "I-actually-don't-care-at-all" attitude. It hadn't been too difficult during his time at Hogwarts, because most of the time he was fairly close to not caring one damn bit, but Granger was unusually perceptive for a Gryffindor, he saw the way she looked at him sometimes, like she somehow knew something about him that she wasn't supposed to.
He found it quite irritating. He also found her kindness toward him irritating. He'd never been able to forget that she had been the one making him those meals. Draco Malfoy had willingly eaten Hermione Granger's food, he'd looked forward to eating her food and was, in truth, more than disappointed when the food stopped arriving.
"Are you even listening Malfoy?" she asked petulantly, one hand planted on her hip and the other tapping the handle of the spatula against her chin.
"It's never stopped you from blathering incessantly for the mere pleasure of showing how over-sized your brain is before," he replied in perfect form.
"Well, actually," she began with an over dramatic swish of her spatula, "the size of a person's brain has nothing to do with their intelligence, but if this is your backwards way of acknowledging my intelligence, then thank you," she openly grinned at him, and he wondered if she'd forgotten that they're bickering wasn't supposed to be fun for anyone but him.
"Granger, I don't believe it's possible for anyone to ignore how abominably smart you are. Except maybe the Weasel, he seems fairly oblivious to everything."
Draco took careful notice of the way the sparkle vanished from her eyes, but the smile remained for a moment as she turned to face the stove again. Once she wasn't directly facing him, a small frown tucked down the corners of her mouth and her bottom lip was, as usual, being worried away by her teeth.
He considered pursuing the topic, but not only was he planning on eating tonight, he didn't see much benefit in hurting her feelings.
After quietly clearing her throat, she said, "Last step." She once again shimmied the spatula under the sandwich and flipped it over.
"And that's it," he said, eyeing the sandwich with ambivalence. He wasn't sure if he'd ever eaten Muggle food - apart from Granger's tin-foiled deliveries. He wasn't opposed to the idea, but he wasn't sure how felt about this lack of… opposition.
"That's it." She stepped to side, opened the overhead cupboard and pulled out the happy yellow plate.
After she'd safely deposited his sandwich onto the plate he moved to pick it up, but she got it before he did and was already seated at the island counter before he realised his food was gone.
He stared at her as she poured some flat, yellow things that looked like they'd taste like old bread onto her plate. He continued to stare as she took a bite and chewed, her eyes focused on the papers scattered across the counter.
(Hello everyone! - I'm not sure if this line break will go through to the uploaded version of chapter 2, but I figured I'd test it out.)
I see you guys out there (and by see, I mean I'm checking the traffic count for this story way more than I'd like to admit), and I appreciate the fact that you've even shown an interest, I mean, this story is close to my heart, so the fact that anyone's reading it makes me happy.
Reviews make me very, very happy, as do follows, but I digress. - Lindsey)