Being the kind soul that I am, I feed Julian off my plate and pretend not to notice the long looks he gives me before each and every peck. Emma took care to add something bird friendly, a hefty amount of grains on top of the meat porridge. The sound of my spoon depositing porridge covered grains onto Julian's little dish is harsh to the ears.
"You can lose the attitude. I don't have cooties and it's not like I turned you into a freaking bird," I mutter after he stares accusingly at my spoon.
"Fine, fine," I say around a mouthful of porridge after more uncomfortable silence. "So maybe I'm taking advantage of it. But it's not like I told you to come here. You chose to peck at my window, knowing the risks."
I sound guilty. I sound apologetic. But worst of all, I sound like a flip flopping hypocrite.
