The temperature in the room seemed to drop at Nina's question. The tea sitting between them continued to release thin wisps of steam, but the warmth no longer reached her. It felt as though the air itself had grown colder, pressing against her skin until even the crackling fire in the hearth struggled to chase it away.
Jonathan's back stiffened. A muscle ticked along his jaw. His gaze slipped past her shoulder, settling on the wall behind her instead of meeting her eyes.
Nina watched him in silence. She knew that look; she had seen it countless times growing up. Every birthday she gathered enough courage to ask about her mother. Every lonely night she wondered why no one looked at her the way other children were loved. Every single time… he wore that same expression. The one that said the conversation was already over before it had even begun.
