Kaya rolled her eyes at him. And of course, even that hurt too much. Her eyes throbbed, her head ached, and her body felt like it had been crushed under the weight of this cursed cold.
She tried to speak again—only to feel her throat sting, her voice refusing to come out.
Seeing her struggle, the idiot—yes, her idiot—hurried toward the second stove where he had kept something warm. Without even bothering to check, he grabbed the pot.
A sharp hiss of pain.
"Ouch, ouch, ouch!" he yelped.
But instead of dropping it, he still held onto the damn hot soil bowl like a lunatic. He poured the steaming liquid into a wooden glass with shaking hands. Then, as he placed the burning pot down—on his brow of all places—he flinched, cursing again,
"Ouch, ouch—damn it!"
Waving his hand like mad, he rubbed his now-red fingers against his coat sleeve.
And still, he turned to her. His face a little scrunched, but he held out the bowl.
"Here," he muttered, like nothing had happened.
