Chris said nothing; he just moved his gaze to the food in front of him. There was no point in arguing with a man who thought he was right. His throat burned; he fought the tears in his eyes and, for the second time in an hour, he won.
"I understand," he muttered, and took a sip of his coffee.
The taste was bitter and cooling on his tongue. Across the table Dax's eyes flicked to the mug, then back to his face, reading the minute tremor in his hands and the tension in his shoulders. A muscle twitched once in his jaw. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its edge but not its weight.
"Good," he said quietly. "You should eat." The words were simple, but the way he said them made them feel like an order wrapped in concern. He gestured, a small tilt of his fingers, and one of the covered dishes slid a few centimeters closer across the polished wood. "At least try."
