"Are you going out again?"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
"Any cravings? Should I bring you something?"
Killian didn't even look at me as he spoke.
His eyes stayed fixed ahead, expression blank.
The question came out flat, mechanical—like a poorly programmed voice assistant, all function and no feeling.
No emotion. No care. Just words thrown into the air as if he was ticking off a box.
There was no weight to it, no pause, no flicker of concern. Just cold, detached noise passing through his lips.
"No, thank you."
"Suit yourself."
"Killian!"
I stopped him.
I knew this conversation will end badly, but I stopped him nonetheless.
"Hm?"
"Can we talk?"
"Are we not talking already?"
"You've been distant. Cold. I know you were always disinterested in me, but this is ridiculous."
Killian banged his watch on the countertop. I couldn't help but flinch, not because of the suppressed violence of the act but because of the deafening annoyance he had been experiencing for the past week.
