"Yes, miss," he confirmed, though he wasn't quite sure why she was smiling like that. She was overwhelmingly expressive in ways he could barely grasp and though that made her face incredibly easy to read, he found himself perplexed by her openness.
By contrast, his expression reverted to its default blank state as she seemed to be looking for something on his face, but as she busied herself with tea, there was something he couldn't recognise and didn't acknowledge creeping across his features.
There was a woman in his kitchen who'd made him tea, one lifetime ago. A woman whom he shared a bed with, who gave him two children, who helped him with things he didn't need help with, who loved him in a way he did not understand, and who died (was killed) alone without knowing he was remotely capable of loving her in return.
"Not anymore," he said. The word Cleric, which he'd once embraced and embodied to the highest standards possible, had soured very quickly once he stopped dosing himself.
Instinctively when the feathers that were her fingers rested on his sholder, the muscles in his arm tensed and his jaw clenched. Though he didn't look alarmed, there was a brief display of confusion and uncertainty dancing across his face before the ripples in the still waters vanished and he settled back into impassiveness.
For a while he sat there in silence, watching her hands busy themselves with making tea. He could only respond after he'd found the words to say.
"There is nothing to be sorry about. And I don't know what you mean by 'better'."