Mike sank back onto the edge of the mattress, not close enough to touch her, but close enough that the heat from his body seemed to bleed into the space between them. He watched her with the detached, predatory patience of a lion watching a gazelle clean itself.
He didn't try to fill the silence; he knew the power of a vacuum, and he knew that Haruka needed to fill it herself.
She began to type. It wasn't the frantic, mindless tapping of someone scrolling through social media; it was a deliberate, rhythmic assault on the screen.
She was composing a lie, or perhaps a version of the truth, with the surgical focus of a diplomat drafting a peace treaty.
Six minutes passed. Mike didn't check his phone.
He didn't shift his weight. He simply existed in the heavy, charged atmosphere of the room, letting the seconds stretch.
He could tell by the way her shoulders were set that she wasn't performing composure for his benefit; she was using the task to build a fortress around herself.
