32

The late winter air was crisp but not biting, the kind that lingered on the skin without sinking too deep. Patches of frost clung stubbornly to the roadside, yet the sun shone bright enough to cast golden streaks over the car's windshield. It wasn't exactly warm, but it wasn't unbearably cold either. Just in between.

Sorn settled into the back seat, stealing a glance at Ralf in the front seat. The man wasn't silent, not completely—he still responded when spoken to, still acknowledged Sorn's presence. But his words were brief, his usual casual remarks now reduced to simple nods or short answers. He never once met Sorn's eyes.

It wasn't like they had fought. At least, not in any way Sorn could define. And yet, every time he stood just a little closer next to the man, Ralf would tense, not pulling away but stiffening just enough for Sorn to notice. When he spoke, his words were oddly misplaced, like he was grasping for something to distract himself.