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The low-pressure system Viktor had predicted arrived two hours early. By six o’clock the sky had gone dark, water hammering the compound roof in sheets, the wind pushing it sideways against the windows of the quarters. The patrol rotation doubled. Chris had been out since four, running the eastern line with Viktor, checking the ward anchors in the wet. Sloane had stayed behind at the map table in the briefing room, marking the projected gap windows Caitlynn had calculated, cross-referencing weather data with the ward fluctuation logs.

She heard the front door open at seven. Heard his boots on the stone floor, the heavy tread of a man soaked through. She didn’t look up from the map.

He appeared in the kitchen doorway. His hair was plastered flat, water running down the sides of his neck into the collar of his jacket. His shirt was dark with rain.

“Anything?” she asked, her voice tense.

“Quiet. Viktor’s keeping the double rotation through midnight.” He peeled the jacket off. Hung it on the hook by the door, where it dripped onto the stone in a steady rhythm. “The anchors between six and seven are holding. Caitlynn reinforced them yesterday.”

“Good.”

He pulled a towel from the shelf. Pressed it against his face, his neck. She watched him over the top of the map, the way the muscles in his forearms moved as he scrubbed the towel through his hair. She looked back down.

“Have you eaten?” he looked up at her.

“No.”

“It’s seven o’clock.”

She didn’t respond. He tossed the towel over the back of a chair and opened the cold store. She heard him pull things out, set them on the counter. The sound of a knife on a board. She kept working.

“You could eat at the table,” he said. “I’ll bring it to you.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve been at that map since I left. It’s been what? Three hours.”

“The gap projections needed updating. The system came in early.”

“Sloane. Eat. Please.”

She set the pen down. He was standing at the counter with bread sliced on the board, pulling cold meat from a wrapping, reaching for the jar of mustard Elena had sent over last week. He moved through the kitchen easily, hands steady, each action feeding the next.

She pushed the map aside and sat back in the chair.

He brought two plates to the table and set one in front of her before sitting down across from her with his own. The sandwich was plain. Meat, bread, mustard. He’d cut it in half.

“Gourmet,” she said with a hint of a smile.

“You’re welcome.”

She picked up a half. Took a bite. The bread was good. Elena’s.

They ate in silence for a minute. Rain beat the window behind her. The bond sat steady between them, his presence warm across the table, close enough that she could feel the residual cold coming off his skin from the hours outside.

“The weather model shows it clearing by Thursday morning,” she said. “If Garrett moves, it’ll be between midnight and four.”

“Viktor knows.”

“Viktor knows the window.” She took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. “He doesn’t know what Garrett does before he moves. Nobody in that briefing room does.”

Chris set his sandwich down. “What does he do?”

“He goes quiet.” She turned her bread over, pressing her thumb into the crust. “When I was small, the worst nights were never the loud ones. The loud ones were predictable. He’d come home angry, slam things; you could hear him from two rooms away. You had time to prepare.” She paused. “The bad nights were the silent ones. He’d sit in his chair for hours. Wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t move. The whole house would go still around him, like the air was holding its breath. And then he’d stand up, and you’d know.”

“Know what?”

“That he’d decided.” She looked at the rain on the window. “He’s been loud for weeks. The probes, the notes, the scout at the ward line. That’s noise. When the noise stops, that’s when he’s ready.”