Kafka stood there, awkward and stiff, his hand brushing against his legs as though it could steady the unease rattling inside him. His eyes flicked to Seraphina, this goddess who had just defused the storm that nearly ended with him murdering his own mother, as he didn't know what to say. A lump sat heavy in his throat.
Her eyes didn't help. Those piercing blue irises didn't meet his with warmth or even recognition, they regarded everything with detached disdain.
The sofa, the curtains, the table with its scratches and uneven legs, her gaze swept over them like a queen forced to sit among peasants. It was unnerving. She looked less like a guest and more like an auditor, quietly finding the flaws in his very existence.
Kafka tried to smile, tried to break the ice. A joke sat at the tip of his tongue. Anything to make this unbearable silence less suffocating. He opened his mouth, but before a single sound came—
Seraphina's expression snapped.
