Malcolm’s smile gets lighter. He glances at the plate and nods. All stuff he can eat.

“I know what it’s like. The mess. The way it sneaks up sometimes.” He pulls the plate over so he doesn’t have to stray from Will’s arms to pick up one of the bites and pop it in his own mouth - safe, see? - before picking one up and offering it to Will. “This one has something lemony in it.” He’s not a chef, either.