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“That seems efficient.”

“That is horrifying.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened. “I survive.”

“Yes, Veyr,” I said softly. “I have noticed.”

He resumed eating—fast, precise movements. Not rude, just ruthlessly efficient, as if the plate might be snatched away at any moment.

I took another tentative bite of my own meal. Less spice this time. Much better. “You eat like somebody’s going to take the plate from you.”

His hand froze mid-motion. For half a second, his shoulders went rigid. Then he continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Military habit.”

“Do soldiers have twelve-minute lunch windows?” I prodded.

“Sometimes less.”

“Right.” I watched him swallow without seeming to chew. “Slow down.”

“No.”

“You’re going to choke.”

“I am not.”

“Very confident.”

“I know how to eat.” His tone was flat, final.

“Debatable.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—a faint, almost imperceptible shift.

I leaned forward. “You almost smiled again.”

“No.” He didn’t look at me.

“You did.”

“You are becoming repetitive.” But his voice had lost its edge.

“You’re becoming easier to read.” The words were out before I could reconsider.

The near-smile vanished. His gaze flicked to the door, then back to his food. Interesting. I let it go.

For a few minutes, we actually ate.

No records. No accusations. No operational briefings.

Just food.

The neighbor’s cooking smell drifting through the vents. Transport lights sliding across the walls. Veyr finishing his meal before I was halfway through mine and then sitting there like he had forgotten what people did when the task was over.

I nudged the opened package across the table toward him. “Here.”

His gaze dropped to the rejected food. “What?”

“The spicy part.”