"All right," she says, hesitantly, her voice barely more than a whisper. All she can see of him are his eyes, burning in the darkness he has wrapped around himself, before even they fade.

Why the hell is she doing this? Bad-blood-cross or whatever, she must be insane.

She can feel his absence, like the feeling of the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. She is alone in the kitchen.

The thermos is still there on the counter, coagulated blood on the rim. It'll need to be washed.