Kieran beats me to our table. When I arrive–still ten minutes early–with an armful of books, he's already sitting into the chair opposite mine, his cane leaning against the desk. He's wearing another button-down shirt, but eggplant colored this time.
His dark eyes watch me approach, an unreadable expression on his face, and when I drop the stack of books onto the table with a thud, I notice why.
There's a muffin by my spot. A fresh, golden muffin, giving off a warm, buttery scent that makes my stomach growl.
I sit, head fuzzy. Is that for me?
"I didn't know if you'd have coffee already."
I make a weird noise. God, someone gives me a single muffin and I lose all social skills. It's just that–well, no one gives me things. In the foster system, you guard your possessions with your life,
