“Your shadow.”
“My shadow has always been suspicious.”
“It just flickered.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“I just saw it.”
He glances back over his shoulder, then down at the ground where his shadow stretches long across the uneven yard. It looks normal now. Still. Obedient.
He turns back to me. “Lighting.”
“It’s not lighting.”
“Sable.”
“It’s not.”
We stand there for a moment, tension stretching thin between us.
Then Corin exhales and gently pulls his wrist from my grasp.
“I appreciate the concern,” he says, tone lighter again, carefully balanced. “Truly. But I’m not collapsing, not sprouting horns, and not currently possessed by anything that wants to redecorate the house.”
“That’s a very specific list.”
“I like to be thorough.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m coping.”
That earns him a pause.
Fair.
I study him again, slower this time, looking past the easy charm, the practiced humor, the way he holds himself like nothing in the world can surprise him if he names it first.
Something is different.
Not loud.
Not obvious.
But there.
“Fine,” I say finally. “We’ll leave it alone.”
“For now?”
“For now.”
He nods once. “Reasonable.”
He picks up the blade again like nothing happened, adjusting his grip with that same careful precision. “Now, unless you intend to supervise my chopping technique indefinitely, I have wood to offend.”
“I might stay.”
