“Okay.”
“I will reinforce the rear lock.”
“Okay.”
“I will inspect the wiring.”
“Okay.”
“I will repay every credit.”
“Kauss.”
He stops.
I move closer, slowly enough that he has time to retreat if he wants. He does not. His hands hang at his sides, large and scarred and careful. There is blood beneath one claw, dark and stubborn despite the rain. I reach for his hand.
He pulls back slightly. “Evie.”
“Let me see.”
“It is nothing.”
“Then let me see nothing.”
He gives me his hand like surrender.
His palm is enormous beneath mine, warm and rough, the scales fine but strong. His knuckles are bruised. Several small cuts are already closing. I turn his hand gently, trying not to think about how easily these fingers could crush bone, trying harder not to think about how carefully they held coffee cups, pastry plates, and me.
“You’re hurt,” I say.
“Minor.”
“You keep saying that like it makes me less mad.”
“I do not want you worried.”
“That ship left orbit, big guy.”
His fingers twitch in my hold.
I look up. He is watching my hand on his, not my face, as if the sight confuses him more than violence ever could.
“Does this bother you?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I begin to let go.
His fingers close around mine with extreme care. “Not badly.”
Oh.
The bakery seems to warm around us, though the ovens are off.
I swallow. “Okay.”
He looks at me then, and the air turns delicate in a way that scares me because everything else in our lives is loud, broken, dangerous, and expensive. This quiet is more perilous than all of it.
