Shepard regards the meal with the same wary attention one might a venomous snake. It's dangerous. The food wouldn't fill her up, not really, but she had gone enough days without meaningful food, was so gnawingly hungry... And would she even feel it, illusory as the sensation was?

Her youth had been spent curled around that same hunger, the hollow never-quite-right feeling, the weariness that you pushed through for lack of a better option. Waking up to an empty belly, after such a reprieve, might be more than she could bear.

Or maybe she deserved the break. Maybe it— could she even resist the temptation? And then the food is in front of her, steaming and meaty, with rich flecks of fat floating in the broth and...

"Fuck it," Shepard mutters. If he wants to have any kind of conversation with her during the next few minutes, it's not likely. There's nothing in the world right now except bread and soup and wine. Sorry, Jon.