He noticed her almost instantly. “Hey.”
His voice broke a little on the single syllable.
Maya swallowed. “You look terrible.”
He gave a laugh that did not deserve the name. “You collapse for one evening and suddenly I’m not photogenic.”
There it was—that thin layer of wit he used when the truth was too close. Maya closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” The word came out too fast. He leaned back, then forward again, unable to settle. “Just… don’t do that.”
She turned her face toward the window. It showed only black glass and her own dim reflection. “You know now.”
He did not answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice had gone quiet in a way she had never heard before.
“A doctor came to talk to me.” He looked down at his hands. “She asked if I knew about your condition.”
