As I watched more of the pork disappear from the plate, a quiet sense of satisfaction settled in me. It wasn't something I showed often, but seeing someone eat what I made—truly enjoy it—stirred a small, undeniable pride deep inside.
"Mr. Presgrave, is my mommy's cooking good?" Jared asked, his voice bright with curiosity as he looked between us.
"It is," Elliot replied without hesitation. "It's exceptional." His gaze flicked toward me, steady, deliberate, and for a brief second, I felt it like a touch.
I cleared my throat lightly, breaking the moment. "Then you should eat more if you like it."
"You're out of rice," he said, a faint note of dissatisfaction in his voice.
I stared at him, speechless. How many servings had he already gone through?
"Next time, I'll make more," I said after a pause, unable to hide the awkwardness in my tone. "I misjudged today."
