Her expression tightens almost imperceptibly, and that thin trickle of dread grows just a little bit steadier. She glances down at her hand, then sets the chocolate down on the table in front of him, with a "Did I bring the wrong kind?" that is almost credibly offhand.

(Would be entirely credible, if it weren't for that damning thread of fear, or the micro-expressions almost no one at ADI would have a chance at reading.)

She takes a seat beside him, leaving perhaps a foot between them - close, but not close enough to crowd.

"What is happening to you?"

It's as much an answer to his question as it is a question of her own.