Footsteps echoed through the warehouse.
Raegal heard them from a mile away—but he didn't move, too busy letting the cigar burn between his fingers.
"Been a long time seeing you sober," Nila said, descending the stairs.
He leaned against the wall, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching the cigar.
"Still high on nicotine," he muttered with a sigh.
"The boy… he is…" she faltered.
"Not… well."
A cold wind swept across their faces, carrying the faint sting of smoke.
"We don't talk much, do we?"
he asked.
"We don't," she replied.
"…I hardly talk to him."
"After what…" he trailed off.
"Happened."
"Same here."
Smoke curled lazily between them.
"You talked to… her?"
He paused.
"You should go back inside."
Raegal smiled faintly and nodded, the ember of his cigar glowing softly in the darkness.