I wasn’t supposed to react like this.
Not to him.
Not right now.
Not ever.
I forced myself back into the chair. Sitting felt safer than standing; standing made me feel like I was going to move toward him without thinking.
Minutes passed quietly.
Or maybe it was longer.
The night felt different in here—slower, heavier, like everything outside the walls had turned into white noise.
At some point, there was a soft knock on my door.
Three taps—Grim’s pattern.
I stood, crossed the room, and cracked the door open.
Grim stood there, arms crossed over his massive chest, beard bristling, eyes sharp in the dim hallway light.
“Any movement from their side?” I asked quietly.
He shook his head. “Not yet.” His gaze dipped past my shoulder to the bed. “He still out?”
“Yeah.”
Grim grunted, low. “Kid looks younger when he’s not yelling.”
“He wasn’t yelling.”
“No,” Grim agreed. “But he will be tomorrow.”
I didn’t argue.
He nodded once, slow. “You need anything?”
“No.”
He held my gaze a second longer, reading me in that way only someone who’s pulled you out of fire before can.
“That call was harsh,” Grim said. “Even for you.”
“He started it.”
“You finished it,” he said simply.
He wasn’t judging. Just stating facts.
“We’ll keep watch,” Grim added. “Fuse is in the war room. Wraith’s on the roof. Slate’s patrolling the east route. Nobody’s getting close.”
I nodded. “Good.”
Grim’s eyes flicked toward the bed again. “Lock…”
“Don’t.”
