I grin. “Fair.”
I tell her about the time Snow tried to bluff his way through a restricted access point with nothing but confidence and afake accent that changed halfway through the sentence when we were on a mission. I exaggerate. Obviously. Kayla corrects me anyway, filling in gaps I didn’t realise she knew.
“You’re leaving out the part where he panicked,” she says.
“I amediting,” I reply. “For tone.”
She laughs again – quieter this time, but just as real – and leans back against the pillows like she’s forgetting to hold herself upright. The contact stays easy. Unforced.
This is the thing people miss about her. She doesn’t take up space loudly. She takes itdeliberately.
We sit there for a while trading fragments – nothing important, nothing sharp. I tell her about a disastrous meal in Prague that involved something pickled and a man who definitely lied about what it was. She tells me about a place she once stayed where the curtains never quite closed and how she learned to sleep anyway.
“That sounds miserable,” I say.
“It was,” she agrees. “I liked it.”
I snort. “Of course you did.”
Her knee bumps mine when she shifts. She doesn’t apologise. Neither do I. It feels…right. Like a shared rhythm we didn’t have to negotiate.
“You’re very calm today,” I say, aiming for neutral.
She shrugs. “I’m choosing it.”
That gives me pause. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s accurate. Everything we do is a choice. And we need to give her more credit for the choices she’s making.
I glance at her again, really look. Not the bruises. Not the tiredness she’s hiding better than she thinks. The intent. The way her attention flicks, always tracking more than she lets on.
“You always do that,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Decide,” I reply. “Before anyone else realises there’s a choice.”
She meets my gaze, eyes steady. “Someone has to.”
There it is.
The room feels quieter after that – not awkward, just aware. I shift slightly, letting my shoulder rest more fully against hers, grounding rather than guarding.
“You’re allowed not to carry everything,” I say, lighter than I mean it.
She doesn’t answer straight away. Just breathes. Then: “I know.”
The pause that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of things neither of us are saying, and for a moment I think that’s where it’ll stay.
Then she speaks again, tone casual, almost curious. “Can I ask you something?”
I glance at her. “That depends entirely on how dangerous it sounds.”
She smiles faintly. “Hypothetical.”
I relax a fraction. “Those are usually the worst ones.”
She doesn’t look at me when she asks it.
“If someone wanted to bait you,” she says lightly, like we’re still talking about toast and bad curtains, “what would they offer?”
