I slid into the empty chair across from her, my eyes never leaving her face. She shifted under the weight of my stare, her fork lowering as though she'd been caught doing something wrong. But it wasn't guilt I saw in her expression, it was the dimming of something I'd seen earlier, in the cocoon of our morning. The warmth in her cheeks, the spark when she teased me, gone now.
"You're not as bright as you were this morning," I said quietly, cutting straight through the silence. "What's wrong?"
Her lips curved, but it was the kind of smile meant to soothe, not to convince. "You act like my mom sometimes."
I leaned forward slightly, but my voice didn't soften. "I can't help it."
She tilted her head, and for a heartbeat I saw the faint glimmer of honesty slip through her eyes. "It's okay," she whispered. "I like the way you fuss over me."
