"Was it slow for you?"
She's asked carefully, but the words pierce like knives, and he stares into his glass, swirling around something harder than stovetop comforts as he pretends to not know what she meant. "Slow?"
He throws back the liquor, his eyes challenging hers.
"Don't do that."
Fortitude reminiscent of a time long past lights behind midnight irises, challenging him back. She never relinquished a fight then, and she won't now.
Minutes pass and suddenly weary, he sets the tumbler down. "Prolonged."
"Sounds like Hell," she whispers.
"I have conquered Hell." His mouth sets, grim. "This I cannot."