[Third Person].
Draven watched Meredith finish the last spoonful of porridge like it was a chore she had been sentenced to.
Then, she pushed the bowl toward him with a dramatic sigh. "There. I did it. Are you satisfied now, Healer?"
Draven took the bowl, set it aside calmly, then reached for the tray again. Without a word, he lifted the lid he had earlier closed with such finality.
The aroma hit Meredith instantly once again.
Draven didn't look at her. He picked up a small portion of the meat, tore it carefully with his fingers, and brought it toward her mouth.
"Open," he said.
She blinked. "I can feed myself."
"I know," he replied evenly. "But not now."
Her lips parted anyway. The first bite made her groan softly before she could stop herself.
Draven arched a brow. "Dramatic."
"You denied me this on purpose," she accused, chewing. "That's psychological warfare."
"No," he said, already preparing the next bite. "That was medical discipline."
