Foreigner

Chapter 44

The cafeteria sounds different.

Not quiet anymore, not tense. The air buzzes with conversation, chairs scrape, someone laughs so loud it bounces off the walls. It's almost unsettling after a month of fearful silence around me.

I walk in with Christian trailing behind me, hands buried in his sweatpants pockets, hood half up like he's allergic to attention. A few heads turn. Then more.

Some kids grin at me, like we share an inside joke. One even gives me a quick nod, almost grateful. A group at the far table claps each other on the back and tilt their heads my way, smiling like they've just been freed from something.

And then there are the others. The ones who go silent, who shift aside like I'm carrying something contagious. Their stares slide off me like oil, wary, watchful.

I grab a tray, pretending not to notice. "Looks like I got promoted without an interview," I mutter. "King Mai, ruler of Whittiker. Long may he reign."

Christian's deadpan follows immediately: "You'd make a terrible king."

I throw him a mock-offended look as I ladle something vaguely edible onto my plate. "Why?"

"You'd make everyone build statues of you, then complain they weren't flattering enough."

That earns him my best fake gasp. "I would not."

His mouth doesn't quite curve into a smile, but there's the smallest twitch at the corner — enough to betray him.

We weave through the tables, most kids pretending not to stare. I lean closer, lowering my voice. "You know, if I'm king, that makes you..." I tilt my head, smirking. "The queen consort."

He stops mid-step. Gives me the slowest, most unimpressed look in existence. For a second, I think he might actually walk back out of the cafeteria and leave me to choke alone.

But then, so quietly I almost miss it, he huffs a laugh through his nose. A sound no one else would catch.

I grin, wide and shameless, and keep walking like I've already won.

We sit at our usual table, trays between us, the cafeteria buzzing louder than it has in months. I poke at something gray that claims to be oatmeal, but instead of eating, I lean over and tug at Christian's hoodie sleeve.

"Let's ditch."

He keeps chewing like I didn't say anything, then finally looks at me with one raised brow.

"We've earned it," I press, grinning. "One day without getting punched, stabbed, or blackmailed. Think about it — an actual day off."

He sets his fork down, studying me. "You'd get bored in ten minutes."

"Then you'll have to entertain me."

For the first time this morning, his mouth tilts — not a smirk, not a laugh, just the quiet kind of smile that slips out when he forgets to hide it.

"I already do," he says.

It's soft, almost an accident, and I freeze for half a second before recovering with my usual grin. "Then it's settled."

I stand and start raiding the serving area — rolls, an apple, two muffins, and something heavy enough to be contraband peanut butter. By the time I've piled it into my arms like a survivalist, Christian is up and following, shaking his head but not stopping me.

Outside, the air bites my lungs. A juice carton slips from my load, and he catches it one-handed without breaking stride. "Clumsy," he mutters, but there's no weight to it.