Winter sat in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, her dark eyes fixed on the flames. Her expression was blank.
Jason shifted closer.
His chair scraped against the wooden floor, a loud awkward sound in the quiet room. Winter did not look at him.
"So," he said, "do you like your room?"
Winter nodded. "Nice room."
"Really?"
"Yes."
She did not say anything else.
Jason fidgeted. He picked up a spoon from the table, turned it over in his hands, set it down. He picked up a napkin, folded it into a small square, unfolded it, folded it again. He looked at Winter, then at the fire, then at Winter again.
"The bed is comfortable," he said. "I picked the mattress myself. Tested seventeen different ones before I found the right one."
Winter nodded.
"The sheets are soft," he continued. "My mom picked them. She has good taste."
Winter nodded again.
"I have extra blankets in the closet if you get cold," he said. "The blue ones are the warmest. The gray ones are just for looks."
