HUNGRY KID

META'S POV: 

We descended the stairwell and reached the ground floor, heading towards the student parking area of Thyme's Science faculty. My stomach rumbled again, a less polite reminder of my hunger. "Damn it," I muttered, digging for my car keys out of habit. My BMW wasn't here. It was 500 meters away, parked safely near my own building. No chance of a quick getaway today.

Thyme's twitchy energy returned almost immediately. His eyes darted nervously, scanning the faces of passing students who were now definitely giving us prolonged, whispering stares. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, constantly expecting something to jump out from behind a bush.

"Oh! I have a bike! My faculty's parking is just nearby, I can get it!" he offered, a glimmer of a solution tinging his voice, even as he seemed to shrink into himself with every passing glance.

"A bike?" I raised an eyebrow. I hadn't ridden a bicycle since I was a kid. But given my current hunger and the intense attention he was attracting, I decided not to argue. "Fine. Lead the way."

As we walked towards the bike racks, the looks from other students became even more pronounced. What the hell is going on with this kid? I thought. I was used to people looking, but this was different. This was… consuming him. He was pale, his eyes wide and anxious, like he expected the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

Finally, we reached a bike rack where a brightly colored, slightly-too-small-for-him bicycle was chained. It looked like something a primary schooler would ride. Thyme fumbled with the lock, his hands visibly shaking.

"Here it is!" he announced, as if presenting a luxury sedan. He tried to swing his leg over it, but paused, looking up at me. "Uh, it's a bit small for two. You can sit on the back, but… it might be a tight squeeze."

I crossed my arms. Even if I miraculously fit, the thought of him pedaling us through campus, a giant gorilla on a child's bike, was just... no. "You're too small," I stated bluntly. "I'll drive. You get on the back."

Thyme hesitated, a flicker of something that looked like embarrassment, then resignation, crossing his face. "B-but… I'm heavier. It'll be hard for you."

"I'm bigger than you," I countered, already taking the bike. "It'll be fine. Get on."

He sighed, a small, defeated sound, and climbed onto the tiny rear rack. He looked incredibly awkward, perched precariously, his legs dangling. His face, still flushed from the chase and the general weirdness of his life, now had an added layer of pure, mortified shyness. He looked like a child being taken for a ride by an older brother, except the older brother was me, and I was about to make him regret it.

"Hold on," I instructed, already feeling the ridiculousness of the situation. I was about to drive this clown car with an oversized kid on the back, while the entire university stared. Great.

Thyme didn't hug my waist. He held onto the back of my shirt, his fingers gripping the fabric like a lifeline, keeping as much distance as humanly possible. His entire body was rigid. He clearly didn't want to touch me more than absolutely necessary.

"You need to hug my waist so you don't fall off," I said, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.

"I'm fine!" he chirped, his voice strained. "I have a good grip!"

I smirked. "Suit yourself, Snotty Kid."

I started pedaling, slowly at first, past more groups of students who stopped and openly pointed, whispering frantically. Thyme visibly wilted, trying to make himself smaller. This was definitely causing him extreme distress, which, honestly, was kind of amusing.

Then, I decided to have a little fun. The road was clear, and it was a downhill slope. I pressed down, accelerating the bike, putting some serious power into the pedals. The little bike shot forward, picking up speed, faster and faster.

"Whoa! Hey! Slow down!" Thyme shrieked from behind me, his voice a mix of terror and indignation. He was bouncing around on the tiny rack, flailing. "I'm going to fall! Meta! META!"

I kept accelerating, enjoying the sheer chaos. The wind whipped past us, and the bike wobbled wildly.

"AHH!" Thyme screamed, and then, with a desperate lunge, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist, his face pressed against my back. His grip was surprisingly strong, almost bruising.

"See?" I called over my shoulder, a triumphant grin on my face. "Told you you'd fall. Now hold on tight, Snotty Kid. We're almost there." I maintained the ridiculous speed, enjoying the fact that he was now forced into physical contact with me, despite his earlier protests. The sheer, unadulterated embarrassment emanating from him was almost palatable. And for some reason, it made the whole absurd situation feel a little less like a recurring nightmare and a lot more like a surprisingly entertaining ride.

We ended up at that little, out-of-the-way restaurant a few blocks from campus, the one with the surprisingly good khao pad and sweet iced tea. It was quiet, tucked away from the main student haunts, which suited me perfectly. Thyme, however, was in his element.

He ordered enough food for three people, a feat I still found baffling given his relatively slender frame. But the moment the first dish, a steaming plate of Pad See Ew, arrived, his eyes practically sparkled like a kid on Christmas morning. "Whoahhh, this smells amazing!" he'd exclaim, his voice bright with unadulterated glee. He didn't just eat; he attacked his plate of noodles with an enthusiasm that was both alarming and strangely endearing. He took giant, shovel-like bites, completely oblivious to how utterly joyful a grown man could look while devouring a simple meal. A stray grain of rice, or perhaps a bit of caramelized noodle, clung to his cheek, a testament to his single-minded focus. And when he smiled, it was a wide, genuine, almost blinding beam that seemed to stretch from ear to ear. He was truly a "Master of Food Who Smiles While Eating," just as I'd heard through the campus grapevine. It was fitting.

I watched him, a strange mix of amusement and bewilderment settling over me. He ate with an uninhibited relish that was almost contagious. There was no pretense, no self-consciousness, just pure, unadulterated happiness over a plate of noodles. His cheeks puffed out with each mouthful, his eyes sometimes closing in blissful concentration. Every now and then, he'd look up, mouth full, and offer me a bite with a hopeful gaze, or try to start a conversation about the optimal chewiness of the squid. "You really have to try this! The texture is just… perfect! It's got that bounce, you know?" he'd insist, holding out a forkful of something suspiciously saucy. I mostly grunted in response, or just shook my head, but he didn't seem to mind my monosyllabic replies. He just kept chattering away, his voice bright and earnest, about food, how much he loved it, and how he wished he could cook more. It was like watching a perfectly fed, very happy puppy that had just discovered the ultimate chew toy.

As the meal progressed, he moved onto the Tom Yum soup, carefully blowing on each spoonful before slurping it down with relish, then the crispy spring rolls, each new dish met with fresh excitement. "The crunch on these spring rolls is incredible!" he announced after an especially loud bite, a bit of lettuce and flaky pastry flying precariously close to my face. I blinked, narrowly dodging it. He seemed utterly oblivious, already reaching for another, his fingers stained with sauce. He'd occasionally pause mid-chew, eyes widening as if a profound culinary secret had just been revealed to him, before digging back in with renewed vigor, sometimes humming a little tune to himself.

It was during one of these energetic, food-fueled pauses, as he paused with a half-eaten shrimp in mid-air, that Thyme's eyes, still bright with the joy of eating, flickered towards the other tables. His smile faltered, just a fraction. He subtly glanced around the small, quiet restaurant, his movements becoming less boisterous. I followed his gaze. A few diners, mostly young women scattered among the lunch crowd, were definitely looking in our direction, quickly averting their eyes when they realized they'd been caught. It was the same kind of furtive glances we'd received on campus, but here, in the subdued lighting of the restaurant, they felt more pronounced, more lingering.

"Hey, do you... do you think people are looking at us?" Thyme mumbled, his voice much quieter now, a nervous edge creeping into it. He let the shrimp fall back onto his plate, poking at his remaining rice with his fork, his earlier enthusiasm visibly dimming. The shift was almost instantaneous.

"People always look," I replied, shrugging, picking up my glass of iced tea. It was a fact of my life, a dull background hum I'd long learned to ignore.

"Yeah, but... it feels different," he insisted, pushing his plate away slightly, as if the food had suddenly lost its appeal. He looked genuinely uncomfortable, his gaze fixed on a loose thread on the tablecloth, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room. "Like... they're whispering. Can't you hear it?"

I took a sip of my iced tea. Whispering? What's he going on about now? I hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, no distinct words, just the usual restaurant murmur. But his distress seemed genuine, his earlier vibrant energy replaced by a nervous fidgeting. "Just ignore it," I told him, perhaps a bit too dismissively. "It's a public place. People look at other people."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, dislodging a few strands. "I guess," he said, but his eyes still darted around the room, as if expecting someone to approach, to confront him. He ate the rest of his meal more slowly, the vibrant energy replaced by a subdued wariness. The easy, unselfconscious joy he'd radiated moments before had retreated, leaving him looking smaller, more vulnerable. It was an odd shift to witness, and for a fleeting second, a strange, unfamiliar irritation sparked within me. Not at him, but at whatever it was that made him so acutely aware of every lingering glance, whatever invisible burden he carried that could so swiftly extinguish his otherwise infectious happiness.

Little did I know, this perfectly ordinary, slightly bizarre meal would become the very spark that ignited the next, far more public, and infinitely more annoying, phase of my life. A single picture, taken by some unseen busybody in this very restaurant, would turn a quiet lunch into a campus-wide declaration, dragging me, Meta, into the tangled, chaotic world of Thyme. And it was all because I'd let his ridiculously loud stomach convince me to buy him a meal.