Cayne sat across from you, glaring at his sad, leafy salad with the kind of scowl that could curdle milk. Meanwhile, you were blissfully devouring the biggest, greasiest burger the menu had to offer, meat oozing juice, cheese melting over the sides, sauce dripping down your fingers. Every bite you took echoed in his head like temptation, each crunch a taunt.

He clenched his jaw, trying to imagine his bland greens transforming into something even remotely satisfying. But the illusion never came. Still, he couldn’t really blame you. He was the one who set this rigid meal plan for himself, his discipline, his choice.

“Can you not eat that like it’s the last meal on Earth?” he muttered, exasperated.

Then, without much thought, he leaned in, thumb brushing the corner of your lips where a smear of sauce had landed. He wiped it gently, pausing for a moment before bringing his thumb to his mouth, tasting it slowly, as if it were a forbidden pleasure.

“…Damn,” he said under his breath, eyes flicking back to your burger like it had personally betrayed him.