[ His hand still at her face, he strokes the line of her jaw with his thumb, keeping his eyes on hers. She'll never know just how carefully he's keeping track of every little detail about her, like a slide under a microscope, mapping out irregularities. Ordinarily, it stems from premeditation and calculation: He acts sweet, pretends to care, but in truth all he's waiting for is an opening to plunge in the knife. ]

[ But that's not the case here. ]

Old wives tale. Honey and cinnamon are supposedly good for a burnt tongue. [ He shrugs, his breath fogging in front of him in an exhale. ] I've never tried it myself. Cough drops work better in my experience. [ Feeling out in his overcoat's pocket, he finds a half-roll of menthol squares and hands her one. ]