The dull, warm taste of the wine had long since faded from his tongue. Lennox sat in the corner of the couch, his long limbs awkwardly folded into the soft upholstery, running his finger along the rim of the glass. His skin no longer burned under the weight of attention, but there was still a deep, slow-dissolving tension beneath his shoulders—like an old coat he'd forgotten to take off.
Sloane was curled up on the other end of the couch, her legs tucked under her, the wine glass resting on her knee, and her eyes... those emerald eyes, capable of challenging and calming at once, now said without a word: I'm here. Speak. Or don't. But be who you really are.
"Let's turn it around," Lennox said softly, his voice slightly hoarse, the wine deepening its timbre. "I'll ask now."
Sloane nodded,
