“I’m judging your secret domestic agenda.”
“And.”
I glance at the reinforced shelf brackets. “It’s annoyingly solid.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t praise.”
“It remains accurate.”
I turn then, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “Serr took the packet.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to try and draft another midnight manifesto, are you.”
He actually has the decency to look slightly guilty.
I narrow my eyes. “Rhyx.”
“No.”
“You paused too long.”
“I was remembering how angry you were.”
“Good.”
He inclines his head. “Then no.”
That should be enough.
It is, mostly.
Still, I step closer and press my palm flat to the center of his chest just to feel the reality of him there, warm through his shirt, heartbeat steady under skin and scale and history.
“We did the hard thing,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
“I hate that the hard thing is restraint.”
“Yes.”
“I hate that they built a world where the truth has to be staged so it doesn’t kill people.”
His hand covers mine. “Yes.”
For a moment we just stand there in the half-finished room with rainlight on the wall and the smell of damp earth coming through the vent and the future breathing awkwardly around us because it doesn’t know its own furniture yet.
Then my comm slate buzzes.
I groan into his chest. “If that’s another coalition draft council, I’m becoming a myth and moving into the woods.”
He says into my hair, “That seems logistically poor.”
I pull the slate out and stare.
