Page 55

“Still here.”

“I know.”

“Good.” Breathless, certain. His wolf had gone to the warm, still, settled place. Not watchful. Not waiting. Arrived. When she finally laughed again, the full one, the real one, he let it land in his chest, somewhere past anything he could still put a name to.

A summons came, quiet as still water, somewhere in the hours that followed. One amber creature on the windowsill, calm and present. Not a surge. A witness.

Hers. Mine.

He didn’t need to hold onto this. It wasn’t going anywhere.

Mirelle was in the kitchen when he came back inside from the morning deck check. His kitchen. In his cabin. Making coffee. “What did you do to the coffeemaker?”

“Nothing dramatic. You were using too much water.”

“I’ve been using the same ratio for eight years.”

“Eight years is slightly wrong.”

He studied the coffeemaker. The coffee. Her, standing in his kitchen in his flannel shirt. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

“My options were limited.”

“I have —”

“Your shirt was closer.” She held her mug. “Is this a problem?” Her in his kitchen, wearing his shirt, with the coffee she’d fixed, morning light through the east window, his ships on the worktable, and his whole cabin quietly rearranged to include her. Only one answer would do.

“No.”

“Good.” She held out the mug to him. He closed his fingers around it, covering hers, and her eyes met his over the rim, no distance. He kissed her, morning coffee and everything, right there in the kitchen, one hand coming up to cup her face and her free hand going to his chest the way it did.

When he pulled back, she still held the mug. The morning light was doing what it did through the east window. The ships sat in their bottles. “The coffee is good.”

“I told you.”

“I’m acknowledging it.”

“That’s big of you.” She kissed him back. Quick, warm. Then she turned back to the counter, and he stayed where he was for a moment: coffee in hand, October morning, her in his kitchen. He thought, This is it. He’d been wondering what was missing, and here it was, making coffee and adjusting the ratio. He joined her at the counter. She sliced bread. She’d found the loaf he kept in the second cabinet, using the same logic she used in her own kitchen. He stood beside her, close enough that their arms touched when she moved. She didn’t adjust, and neither did he.

“When’s the Bexley meeting?” she asked.

“Ten.”

“Do we have time?”

“For breakfast. Yes.”

“Good.” She handed him a piece of bread. “You’re going to eat an actual breakfast. This is also on the list.”

“What list?”

She eyed him sideways. “The orange one, Tor. Keep up.”

Tor ate the bread. Outside, the ward line did its quiet thing. The morning waited. He had been patient. The right moment for the right thing was worth waiting for.

It was increasingly clear what he was waiting for.

SEVENTEEN