Stefan watched Genevieve in the soft dining light, the yellow glow from the hanging lamp falling gently over her face. She sat across from him at the dining table, shoulders slumped, fingers limp around her fork as she pushed cold pasta from one side of the plate to the other.
She hadn't taken more than four bites. And every time he spoke, she offered only little hums, small distracted smiles that didn't touch her eyes.
Stefan's chest tightened with a worry he had been trying to ignore all evening.
He let out a long, quiet sigh and set his fork down carefully, as if the noise might startle her.
"Okay," he said softly. "I'm listening. Tell me."
Genevieve blinked, slowly lifting her gaze to his. Her eyes looked far away, as though she had to travel through miles of thoughts to meet his.
"Listening to what?" she asked, in a flat voice.
