Her mouth twists. “I fell back to sleep. And you left.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
I draw in a breath. I have no answer for her.
She’s silent long enough that the kettle starts to whistle.
I pour the water. The steam fogs my face. I hand her a mug, careful to avoid her fingers this time. She takes it, bumping my knuckle, and that somehow feels worse.
“Why did you come here?” she asks, blowing across the surface of the tea.
“I needed quiet.” I meet her eyes. Don’t blink.
Something in her shoulders eases and then tightens again. “We can talk logistics,” she says. “Schedules. Rooms. Rules.”
“Sure.” My mouth is dry. “Rules are good.”
She lifts her chin. “No alcohol.”
I huff out half a laugh. “Easy. There’s wine somewhere, but I’m not drinking. Doctor’s orders.”
“And no talking about… You know.”
“We don’t need a rule for that,” I say. “We need honesty.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
“I know.”
She thinks about that, rolling the mug between her palms. “Okay,” she says. “Honesty. I’m not here for you.”
I absorb it. Swallow. “Okay. Honesty back. I told myself the same thing.”
Her gaze catches on the scar at my hairline. She doesn’t touch it. I’m weirdly grateful.
“You look…” She pauses. Is she searching for some right word? “Good.”
“I am.”
“Any headaches?”
“Gone for the most part.” I tap my temple. “As long as there isn’t a lot of noise.”
“We’ll keep it quiet.”
We look at each other, and somehow the quiet gets louder.
So much for no headaches.
A gust slams into the house hard enough to rattle the dishes in the hutch. The lantern flickers. I turn off the burner.
We stand there a minute, sipping too-hot tea. The heat settles in my gut, calming something feral.
“You hungry?” I ask.
She hesitates. “A little.”
