(CORRINE)
It's dark outside when I open the door. Winter in this human city isn't very cold. It's definitely not as frigid as the weather in the Northern Kingdom.
Tupperware in hand, I'm not sure if I'm making the right decision, but the guilt was preventing me from enjoying my own meal. Finn is occupied with Sigrid, so I am able to slip away unnoticed. I don't intend to do anything other than give Locke the food and leave. I have no plans to talk to him.
When I approach the park across the street, I see that Locke is sitting now. He's so huge—all pure muscle, not an ounce of fat anywhere, that he takes up two-thirds of the bench. Considering he's been fighting at the border nonstop, it makes sense.
He gets to his feet when I approach him. I don't say anything as I hold out the food container.
He gives me a long look and then accepts it. But when I turn around to leave, his hand grasps my wrist.
"Sit."
His tone is somewhere between a command and a request.
