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“If I were, I'd have let Razor keep you in the medical room.”

“Tempting, was it?”

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.”

I should refuse on principle.

But the noise is beginning to make my headache worse.

“Fine. Lead the way.”

He offers his hand.

I ignore it and get up slowly.

He has the good sense not to comment.

The room he takes me to has a couch, two armchairs, and a small table. A television hangs on one wall, and the closed door muffles the noise from the main room.

I sit on the couch.

Much better.

Torch stays near the door.

“You need anything?”

“Answers.”

“Besides those.”

“A little less supervision would be lovely.”

He folds his arms.

“Not happening.”

“Do you always have to be in charge?”

“Comes with the job.”

“Must be exhausting.”

“Only since you climbed through my window.”

I narrow my eyes.

He smiles.

And just like that, the irritation I've been trying to hold on to gets tangled up with something considerably less useful.

“You know,” I say, “you really are too old to find yourself this entertaining.”

His eyebrows rise.

“Too old?”

“Ancient, practically.”