[Despite her efforts to be quiet, he still manages to hear that low creak of the door over the sizzling of oil. His back remains turned, but even so, everything about his posture speaks to focus— for as often as he found cooking a methodical and soothing activity, he was still a perfectionist at heart, and putting a meal together successfully would, he hoped, do something for his mood.
He almost considers saying nothing at all, thinking it might be worse to let her know that he's caught on, but his mouth gets the better of him. He calmly tosses the pasta and vegetables, and without turning, says:]
There's plenty. I'm sure you must be hungry.
[While his tone isn't hard or unpleasant, it feels somewhat hollow and lacking, missing its usual warmth— that, he doesn't have it in him to muster, even if he's determined to be as gracious about this situation as he can be.]
no subject
He almost considers saying nothing at all, thinking it might be worse to let her know that he's caught on, but his mouth gets the better of him. He calmly tosses the pasta and vegetables, and without turning, says:]
There's plenty. I'm sure you must be hungry.
[While his tone isn't hard or unpleasant, it feels somewhat hollow and lacking, missing its usual warmth— that, he doesn't have it in him to muster, even if he's determined to be as gracious about this situation as he can be.]