Ronan wiped at the counter again, though the wood gleamed from how much he'd already scrubbed it. He kept sneaking glances toward the man by the window.
The container of soup sat in front of him, untouched. The Knight didn't move. He simply rested his chin against one hand, those grey eyes fixed unblinking on Ronan. Nearly half an hour passed in that suffocating silence.
Ronan's legs ached from standing so stiffly, and his shirt clung to him with cold sweat. 'Eat already,' he begged inwardly, though at the same time he prayed the man would simply get up and leave.
Finally, as if deciding that Ronan's lack of death was proof enough of nothing being wrong with the soup, the Knight stirred. He placed his palm over the soup container. A faint heat shimmer rippled off his hand, the cooled soup began steaming. Spiritual fire. Just to warm his lunch.
