He slowed his pace slightly, his voice softer now. “Favorite food?”
I frowned. “Are you interviewing me?”
“You’re hard to read.”
“Good.”
“Not good,” he muttered. “Not when I’m trying to apologize.”
I glanced at him, keeping my chin tucked against the wind. His eyes were already on me. I wasn’t ready for the way my heart jumped at the sight.
“Apologize for…?” I asked, wary.
“My parents,” he admitted, stepping carefully over a patch of mud. His shoes sank into the damp ground, leaving soft impressions behind. “Their… involvement. I didn’t know.”
I nodded. “I could’ve guessed as much. Don’t worry about it. I can handle myself.”
He looked like he wanted to argue that, but thought better of it.
Silence followed, filled only by the squelch of our steps through wet grass.
A few minutes
