Page 11 of Tears of Ruin

He perched on the edge of a chair, hands folded in his lap.

I let the silence linger, giving Noam the space to decide whether he wanted to speak or simply eat. His gaze flickered to the ice cream, hesitation warring with hunger. He reached for the spoon, but his fingers hovered above it like he was waiting for permission.

“You don’t have to ask,” I said gently. “It’s yours.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and finally, he picked up the spoon, stirring the ice cream absently. The mixture of chocolate, caramel, and crushed nuts swirled together, melting faster than he seemed ready to eat it.

“You put cherries on it,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“I did.”

Noam’s lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something else, but then he shook his head and took a small bite. He tensed for a moment, as if bracing for disappointment—or worse, a trick—but then his shoulders slowly relaxed. His next bite was quicker.

I sat back, watching without making it obvious. Noam needed this to be his choice, needed to know he wasn’t being tested or judged.

After a few bites, he glanced at me, brow furrowed. “Aren’t you gonna eat?”

I tapped my spoon against my bowl. “I was waiting for the official review.”

Noam blinked. Then, to my surprise, the smallest, most hesitant smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “It’s… really good.”

Satisfaction curled through my chest, but I kept my expression unreadable. “Good.”

He took another bite, slower this time, like he was actually allowing himself to enjoy it. Then, quieter, almost like he wasn’t sure if he wanted me to hear, he muttered, “I’ve never had ice cream like this before.”

I didn’t ask what he meant bylike this.Because I already knew.

A meal that wasn’t rationed. A moment that wasn’t tainted. A kindness that wasn’t conditional.

My jaw tensed, but I forced myself to keep my voice neutral. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

Noam hesitated, looking at me for a beat too long.

And then, in a whisper so soft I almost missed it, he asked, “Why?”

That single word held too much weight. Too much history.

But I wasn’t going to lie to him.

So I met his eyes, steady and sure. “Because you deserve it.”

Noam looked down at his bowl, expression unreadable. But he didn’t argue.

Noam’s spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, but he didn’t look up. His shoulders were drawn in, his expression unreadable. I let the silence stretch, knowing that pushing him for a response would only make him retreat further.

Finally, he set his spoon down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I should… probably go.”

I arched a brow. “Go where?”

Noam’s lips parted, but no answer came. His gaze darted to the window, as if he expected to see a way out. He exhaled, clearly frustrated with himself. “I don’t know.”

“Then stay.”

His fingers curled into the fabric of his borrowed shirt, like he needed something to hold on to. “I don’t belong here,” he said quietly.

I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table. “Where do you belong, Noam?”

The question landed heavy between us. Noam’s throat bobbed, but he had no answer.

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