Declan's POV:
The pasta wasn't bad at all. Creamy, perfectly seasoned, with just the right bite to the noodles. I hated that it wasn't bad. Mostly because Lyla sat across from me at the small table in my room, watching me with that annoyingly patient, soft expression on her face. Like she had known all along that I would eventually give in and eat something real instead of pushing food around like I had been doing all afternoon.
I set my fork down and met her eyes. "You can stop looking so pleased with yourself, you know."
She blinked slowly, those big eyes innocent as ever. "I wasn't."
"You were," I said, leaning back in my chair a little. The wooden legs creaked under my weight. "It's written all over your face."
"I was just making sure you were actually eating," she replied calmly,
