"You haven't disrupted anything."
"Vance." My name, spoken in that quiet, careful voice. "You're risking everything for me. The least I can do is make my own bed."
It was such a small thing. Such an ordinary statement. But something in the way he said it—like making a bed was a novelty, a skill he'd never had the chance to practice—made my chest tighten.
"Closet's in the bedroom. Sheets are on the top shelf."
"Thank you."
Two words, heavy with meaning neither of us wanted to examine too closely.
He disappeared into the bedroom. I stood in my living room and listened to someone else moving through my space—the creak of the closet door, the rustle of fabric.
You're in over your head.
I knew it. Had known it since the moment I found him crouched in that service corridor.
But knowing something and being able to change it were two different things.
I started a pot of coffee while Tobias dealt with the bedroom. Neither of us would be sleeping anytime soon.
By the time it finished brewing, he emerged wearing a pair of my sweatpants and an old Army t-shirt. Both were too big on him—he looked like a kid playing dress-up.
"Coffee?"
"God, yes."
I poured two cups and handed one over. He wrapped both hands around the mug like it was a lifeline, took a sip, and grimaced.
"This is terrible."
"I know."
"It might be the best coffee I've ever had."
I snorted. "That's the shock talking."
"Probably." He took another sip anyway. "I've never had bad coffee before. We always had excellent coffee. Imported beans, precise temperatures. But there was always someone watching to make sure I drank it correctly."
"How can you drink coffee incorrectly?"
"Add too much cream, apparently. Drink it in the wrong room at the wrong time of day." His smile was thin. "There are rules for everything when you're a Langford."
"You should sleep," I said. "It's been a long day."
"I don't think I can sleep."
"Try anyway. Tomorrow's going to be complicated."
He set his mug on the counter and looked at me properly for the first time since we'd arrived. Those pale green eyes held something that might have been fear, might have been gratitude, might have been something else entirely.
"Where will you be?"
"Couch."
"You can't sleep on that thing. It's torture."
"I've slept on worse."
