Stephen’s gone two years without mentioning this to anyone outside of Gwenaëlle; but after having done it the once, it seems it’s a little easier to crack the door open the next time, to shake off all that rust and dust and touch on the wound you’ve been avoiding for decades straight.

“Donna,” he says, after his own pause. His own offering.

It’s just a small skip in the record, but they do manage to recover after that; the conversation finds its flow again and continues its chaotic sauntering path, the night wearing on until the elfroot runs out, the conversation a little less heavier for having shared it.