Eleanor noticed the change before she could name it.
Damián had always been disciplined—present even in his silences—but lately his attention slipped in subtle ways. His responses came a second too late. His gaze lingered somewhere past her shoulder. And when he smiled, it no longer reached his eyes.
They were sitting at a small, carefully chosen restaurant overlooking the river. The kind of place people expected them to be seen in. Elegant. Predictable.
“You’ve been quiet,” Eleanor said gently, swirling the wine in her glass.
“I’m just tired,” Damián replied.
It wasn’t a lie.
It just wasn’t the whole truth.
Eleanor studied him, her expression calm but perceptive. She had learned long ago how to read the pauses between his words.
“You’re always tired,” she said. “That’s not new.”
