She lifts one shoulder. “You do.”
He looks furious and exposed.
I do not tease him. I cannot. The knowledge sits too tenderly in the middle of my chest.
After the food is gone, I help gather containers while Kauss checks a heater coil that has been cycling badly. A few people thank me. A few only nod. Juno presses a small carved button into my hand, made from polished scrap plastic, and says, “For the bread.” I try to refuse. Her glare almost rivals Darlene’s, so I accept.
Kauss walks me back toward the ladder after the last container is packed.
“You were quiet,” he says.
“I know. Miracles happen.”
“Are you upset?”
I look around the tunnel one more time. The tarps. The heaters. The patched lives. The people who have learned to survive beneath a city that walks over them every day.
“Yes.”
His shoulders sink slightly. “I should not have brought you.”
“I’m not upset that I came. I’m upset that this exists.”
“That is not useful.”
“No. But it is honest.”
He studies me in the dim light. “You did not pity them.”
“I don’t think pity feeds people. It mostly feeds the person doing the pitying.”
His gaze sharpens with something like respect.
“And before you say it, yes, I know I can’t fix this with soup,” I add.
“I was not going to say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Yes.”
“At least I’m learning your face.”
“That is concerning.”
“It should be. I’m very observant.”
He steps closer, and the tunnel seems to narrow around us. “I know.”
The quiet between us changes. Water drips. A heater coil clicks. Voices murmur behind us. Kauss stands close enough that I can feel the heat of him, not touching but present in every breath. The memory of last night rises between us: my hand on his scar, his eyes closing, the almost-moment neither of us knew how to survive.
I should step back.
I do not.
“You protect them,” I say.
“I do what I can.”
