The silence that followed his last statement wasn't empty; it was heavy, pressurized by everything they weren't saying. Aveline continued to move around the kitchen, the soft click of cookware and the scrape of a knife against wood providing a rhythmic, almost hypnotic backdrop to the tension.
Finally, she stopped, her back still partially turned, and spoke without looking at him.
"What is this, to you?" she asked.
Her voice was level, but there was an edge to it, a demand for precision that bypassed all social niceties. "This evening... This situation..."
Mike didn't answer immediately. He let the question settle, weighing its implications like a strategist assessing a battlefield.
"Dinner in a kitchen with someone I've been getting to know for several weeks," he said finally. "That's the simple version."
"And the other version?" she pressed, turning to face him. Her eyes were luminous in the lamplight, unblinking and piercing.
