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“The food is spicy.”

His gaze went to the meal.

Then me.

“That is mild.”

“For you.”

He looked genuinely confused. “You have eaten Zunatorian food.”

“Yes. Apparently not whatever sadistic red powder this is.”

Veyr reached across the table.

I expected him to inspect the package.

Instead, he took the section of my meal covered in the red sauce and replaced it with part of his untouched portion.

I looked down. Then at him.

“What are you doing?”

“You dislike that section.”

“I gathered that.”

“This one contains less.”

“You just traded your food.”

“Yes.”

The answer was so simple I almost missed what had happened.

He had noticed what I didn’t like. Then fixed it.

No order. No explanation about nutrition. No argument. Just moved food from one plate to another like people did when they knew each other well enough to stop asking.

Except we didn’t. Not really.

“Do you like the spicy part?” I asked, watching his hand pause over the food container.

“It is acceptable,” he said without looking up.

“That is not what I asked.” I nudged his boot under the table.

His eyes lifted to mine, guarded. “What is the operational difference?”

I snorted. “The difference is whether you actually enjoy it.” His expression went carefully, deliberately blank—the same look he gave malfunctioning equipment. “Oh my God,” I breathed.

“What?” he said, too evenly.

“You don’t know.” The realization hit like cold water. “You actually don’t know if you like it.”

“I know it is food.” He took another deliberate bite.

I laughed, sharp and surprised. “You categorize meals as ‘acceptable’ or ‘not acceptable.’ Like mission parameters.”