“Oh, uh…” 

Sorrel forgot that his illness wasn’t exactly invisible when he… looked the way he did. And, frankly, it was kind for this pockmarked stranger to care that much— most of the time, people just stared at him, or at most silently pitied him as they went about their dare. Most normal people, at least. 

This man wasn’t exactly normal, and Sorrel already figured that. But… being not normal includes being kind to him. 

“It’s not much, really…” Sorrel didn’t really know how to explain his illness— it was rare and often ill-understood, and… maybe it was better to just brush it off. “It’s just part of an autoimmune disease I have, not infectious, not a… not a big deal.” 

… Should he offer to do something for this stranger..? He couldn’t tell, he just felt wrong leaving and heading off. 

“Do you, uh… are you still hungry..?” Real smooth, Sorrel— “because I could, uh… I could probably cook you something better than a processed taco bowl..? Or at least walk you to… a better restaurant..?”

Gods. Sorrel wanted to ram his head RIGHT into the fucking wall. Why was he like this. How the fuck would he cook for this stranger? Isn’t it creepy?? Isn’t he being creepy??? Fuck.