Fin watched her, the subtle shifts in her posture, the way her gaze kept flicking towards the shattered wine glass as if it were a more immediate threat than him. The fear was still there, a tight coil beneath the surface, but the outright panic had subsided. Replaced by a wary, calculating scrutiny.
Good enough.
"Okay," she said finally, her voice still strained but firmer now. "I'll hear you out." She gestured towards the armchair opposite the sofa he occupied. "Sit down. Properly." It was an order, not a request, a small reclaiming of authority in her own space.
He didn't comment, just rose and moved to the indicated armchair, sinking into it. It was less comfortable than the sofa. He watched her navigate around the wine stain again, perching on the edge of her own sofa, hands clasped tightly in her lap. The coffee table, scarred and cluttered, sat between them like a negotiation table in a ceasefire zone.
