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“And then Caitlynn won.”

“When Caitlynn won, the plan collapsed. I didn’t handle it well.”

“No.”

“I know.” She met his eyes. “I’m not asking you to forgive that.”

He held her gaze. The blue of his eyes was dark in the kitchen light, the pupils wide. The bond between them was louder than the rain, a low, sustained heat that pressed against the inside of her ribs.

“You should’ve had someone,” he whispered, his voice as tender as she’d ever heard it.

The words hit a spot she’d thought was sealed shut. She felt it crack, felt the warmth of it spread, felt her throat tighten around a reaction she was not going to have at this table.

“I had myself,” she said. “That was enough.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It had to be.”

He looked at her for a long time. She let him. She didn’t drop her eyes, didn’t reach for the mask, didn’t rearrange her face into the cold, polished surface that had served her for years. She was too tired for the mask tonight. The map was behind her, covered in threat projections. Her father was circling the borders. The rain was coming down so hard the world outside had disappeared.

“More bread?” he said.

The shift was so abrupt she almost laughed. She caught it behind her teeth, pressed her lips together.

“Please.”

He got up. Went to the counter. Cut two more slices, brought them back. Sat down. Pushed one toward her.

“Elena’s sourdough,” he teased. “She’d kill us both for eating it plain.”

“She’d kill you. She likes me.”

“Oh?”

“Elena brought me soup when I had a cold last winter. Unprompted. With a note that said Eat it or I’ll come back.”

Chris’s mouth pulled. “That’s not affection. That’s a threat.”

“It’s both. That’s how Elena works.”

He was smiling. Not the sharp, defensive version he’d been wearing for weeks. A real one, warm, unguarded, the kind that softened the lines around his eyes. She felt it through the bond before she saw it, a bloom of warmth in her chest that wasn’t hers.

“You should do that more,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Talk. Like this.”

The warmth cooled. She felt it go, felt the temperature drop inside her chest, the familiar chill settling back into the spaces that had, for a few minutes, been open.

“I talk plenty.”

“You give tactical assessments. You give orders. You give people the sharp end of your tongue when they get too close.” He was leaning forward now, his forearms on the table, his eyes on her face with a softness she hadn’t asked for. “This is different. This is you.”

Her hands found her lap beneath the table. Her fingers laced together, tight.

“Don’t do that,” she muttered, avoiding his eyes.