Wagyu

B͟l͟a͟k͟e͟

Winter's taken a seat across the table from me, staring at her phone while I cut into a perfectly cooked piece of medium rare Wagyu with a baked potato and some other little side dishes on it. Onion rings, fancy dinner rolls with honey butter, sautéed onions and mushrooms, all the stuff that I keep catching Winter staring at.

She keeps insisting she's not hungry even as I can hear her stomach threatening to eat itself. I don't know if she's just embarrassed or if she's trying to save money or something.

She's showered and in a robe, a towel wrapped around her head, trying desperately to ignore me and the smell of grilled meat that wafts through the air.

I chew on my perfectly cooked steak, loving the way it nearly melts in my mouth. I hum in satisfaction, purposely being louder than necessary.

I ordered other stuff too. Enough food for an army. I figured she'd break eventually. Pizza, steak, lobster, tacos, chicken fingers, just in case she has the taste buds of a child.