The hallway in the house is cramped enough that a bump could mean nothing. Stefan's shoulder catches yours. She stops, grey fur catching the fluorescent light, dark eyes landing on you with all the urgency of someone watching paint dry. Sorry, she says. Flat. Final. And then she adds one sentence — quiet, offhand — that makes your brain stall completely. Her grey ears don't move. Her expression doesn't shift. She just blinks at you, slow and patient, like she said nothing at all. You're almost certain she knows exactly what she said.