Page 172 of These Tears

His mouth lifts because this is public and Jakob Halvorsen knows how to stand still and accept a friendly hand on his back.

I watch his shoulders roll the moment the man lets go. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s enough to shake off the place where the hand landed.

Something inside me sinks.

I know that tiny recoil. I’ve seen what comes before it – the instant stillness, the body bracing before his mind has even had the moment to process the threat.

Someone touched him without warning.

Wait—

Why do I bloody care?

A lungful of cold air in, then a slow exhale out. I buy myself enough time to find something that will make me sound like the woman he introduced me as.

‘He is like that, yes,’ I murmur, slipping into fiancée-mode.

Inga’s gaze catches on my greatest possession resting against my abdomen.

‘When did you start?’ she asks.

I glance down at the camera bag.

‘Photography?’

She nods.

I turn the next mug slowly in my hand. ‘It feels like I’ve always been at it. But I got my first proper camera when I was thirteen. Didn’t really put one down after that.’

‘I’ve done some photography myself. I took a few classes when the shelter needed someone for fundraising and campaign work. Tell Jakob to bring you down to the capital sometime. We could make a fun day of it.’

I smile in response, stifling the urge to say that Elias is not taking me anywhere.

My eyes drift back to the man of the hour.

He’s talking to the men – or pretending to. One of them says something that makes the others laugh, and Elias’ mouth curves a second too late.

It’s convincing enough from a distance. A man among men, shoulders broad, handsome in that quiet, shy way of his.

But I keep watching.

The smile stops at his mouth; not exactly false, but rehearsed – because not wearing it invites questions he has no intention of answering.

I hate that I can relate. My mind even starts toying with the possibility that maybe this is real.

Maybe Jakob Halvorsen can stand beside a bonfire and laugh with men who slap his back and call his name like it attaches to his face.

Or maybe it’s another mask.

Inga’s expression sobers by degrees, the gentleness draining from it as her gaze remains on him.

‘Has he told you everything?’

My head snaps towards her.

The question is too cautious to be casual. Too… placed.

She glances at me then, lifting one shoulder, but her eyes move down conspicuously.