The guy sitting in the kitchen looked like Nate felt. Rubbing his own temples hadn't helped his headache at all, just as rubbing his stomach hadn't helped ease the need to eat that had been plaguing him since discovering his cigarettes missing. Nate had been in and out of the kitchen throughout the morning, consuming about double the food he usually did - and it wasn't enough. Mentally, food was the last thing he wanted to indulge in. But physically, Nate's body was apparently in desperate need of his hand going to his mouth several hundred times a day, and food was all he had left to work with.
"You gonna eat that?" he asked, leaning against the opening in the doorway before picking his route into the kitchen. If he had to he'd go to the fridge and move around all of the vegetables until he found something remotely edible, but he'd rather just eat the ready meal. Maybe the guy was feeling too sick to his stomach to eat for whatever reason. It couldn't hurt to ask.