We walked along quiet, shadow‑lined passages, the noise of the hall fading completely behind us. I kept my hands clasped tight in front of me, still shaken by everything I'd just witnessed. When he lifted his chin slightly, his posture stiff and sharp with quiet irritation, I instinctively lowered my gaze, shrinking a little under his heavy mood.
Then he spoke, tone low and direct:
"I know you have a dozen questions running through your mind. Don't hold them back—ask whatever you want."
I gasped softly, swallowed hard, and asked before I could think better of it:
"Are… are you angry with me?"
He scoffed sharply, clearly caught off guard. For a moment the dark edge in his expression softened just a fraction.
"Of all the things you could ask… you worry if I'm angry with you? Even with all these heavy questions weighing on you, you still care first about how I feel."
