"Food keeps us from stopping."
The words lingered in the air between them, soft and warm as the steam rising from the bowl. This time, Amara had not spoken them with emphasis, yet they seemed to settle heavily all the same, as though they carried more weight than their simplicity suggested.
Vothanael did not move at once. His eyes rested upon the bowl, watching the pale strands of heat twist and thin as they climbed toward the dim glow above them.
Something in that slow vanishing seemed to hold his attention, as though he were studying disappearance itself.
Then he spoke, quietly.
"Stop?"
The word came with care, shaped slowly, as if he were uncertain whether it would remain once spoken.
His gaze lifted to her, and though his face remained still, there was something searching in the way he looked at her, like a mind reaching forward without knowing how.
Amara's expression softened.
