It was ten at night when Noah fell asleep. I couldn't take the hunger anymore, so I went downstairs to the kitchen, since Oliver was probably no longer there.

The sink was clean, and there was nothing on the stove—it didn't even look like he had cooked there.

“A clean man, how rare,” I muttered.

I thought about his lack of empathy for not leaving anything for me, just like the other time when he ate the soup I had saved—especially because whatever he had been cooking smelled so good. I grabbed