Page 33
“I’d rather stand.”
“Sit down! I’ve been living here for two weeks. You sit at the table, you eat your toast, you leave the plate in the sink, and then you disappear before I finish my first cup. That’s the routine. Don’t let your discomfort around me change it.”
She stared at him. The mask held, but her fingers were tight around the mug.
“So you’ve been studying my breakfast habits.”
“I’ve been sharing a kitchen with you. I notice things.”
“Clearly.”
“It’s not a skill. You leave crumbs on the counter every day.”
Her chin came up. “I do not leave crumbs.”
“You leave crumbs. Every morning. In a line from the toaster to the table.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s a breadcrumb trail. I could track you through the compound by following the toast debris.”
Her mouth moved. He watched the corners pull, watched the effort she put into keeping the expression flat, and the effort itself was the tell. She pressed her lips together, hard, killing it before it landed.
“If my crumbs are such a burden,” she said, “you’re welcome to eat somewhere else.”
“This is my kitchen too.”
“Then get a dustpan.”
He almost laughed. He caught it behind his teeth, swallowed it with the coffee. She was still standing. Still holding the mug like a weapon, her knuckles pale against the ceramic. Still wearing that loose grey shirt with the collar slipping off her shoulder, the bare skin catching light.
He looked away. Stared at the wall. Took another drink.
The bond hummed low in his chest, a warmth that had been manageable before this morning and was now a live wire. He could feel her in the room without looking, could map her position by the signal alone, the low steady pulse that said here, here, she’s here. Before today, it had been background noise. Now it carried weight. Texture. The memory of her mouth on his, her hands gripping his shirt, her voice saying yes with a certainty that had blown through every wall he’d built.
He did not want to be thinking about that. He especially did not want to be thinking about it while she stood six feet away, pretending the counter needed her full attention.
She rinsed her mug. Set it on the rack. Turned toward the corridor.
“The early birds of the pack start training at six,” she said, her tone clipped. “I’ll be there at five.”
“I know when you train.”
She paused. Half-turned. “Is there a reason you know my schedule?”
“Same reason you know mine. Small quarters. Thin walls.”
She held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary. He felt the bond flare, a spike, warm, verging on hot, and he wasn’t sure if it was coming from him or from her.
“Stay out of my way tomorrow,” she warned, her eyes darkening.
“I didn’t get in your way today.”
“You got in my way today.”
The words sat between them, loaded, carrying a meaning that had nothing to do with the training yard. She knew it. He knew it. Neither of them was going to say it.
“I corrected your stance,” he said.
