“You were drunk.”
I snort. “No kidding.”
“You said things.”
My stomach knots.
“People say a lot of things when they’re drunk. Doesn’t mean they mean them.”
He swallows. “You meant them.”
His fingers flex against his knee—small and sharp, like something passed through him before he shut it down.
Damn him.
Damn him for staying.
Damn him for knowing me so well.
I stare at my cup. Then force my voice steady.
“And what exactly did I say?”
For the first time, he’s the one who looks away. Just for a second. But I see the flicker of hesitation, the way his fingers now curl where they rest against his knee.
Something did happen last night. Something I felt too. But he won’t say it.
And I won’t ask.
Instead, he shifts, reaching into his pocket.
“Here.”
I blink as he tosses something onto the bed beside me.
“Is that—?”
“From Lyra,” he confirms, entirely too smug. “She said, and I quote, ‘If you let Amara suffer through this without a hangover remedy, you’re dead to me.’”
I groan and flop back onto the pillow. “I hate her.”
“You love her,” Thane corrects.
I crack one eye open to glare at him.
“You two are a menace.”
He smirks, standing. “Get some rest.”
He moves toward the door. And something twists in my chest.
He stayed. Not just in the room. Not just because it’s his.
He slept in a chair and watched over me. Not out of duty or the bond. But because he wanted to.
And that breaks something in me.
Because for all the running, deflection, and practiced distance—Thane isn’t going anywhere.
