"Ressa?" I call, keeping my voice low, calm.
No answer.
I find my pants and shirt, dressing quickly while trying to ignore the growing unease in my chest. Maybe she's just making tea. Maybe she woke early and didn't want to disturb me. Maybe I'm overreacting to nothing because my brain refuses to accept that last night actually happened.
But I know Ressa. My head is just trying to protect my heart.
The bedroom door opens to the main cabin space. I spot her immediately—standing at the small kitchen counter with her back to me, shoulders rigid beneath a plain brown dress I'venever seen her wear before. Her red hair's pulled into a severe bun that makes her look smaller somehow. More contained.
Like she's trying to disappear into herself.
"Morning," I say, moving toward her.
She doesn't turn around. Just keeps her hands busy arranging items on the counter that don't need arranging. "Morning."
The single word carries none of last night's warmth. It's flat. Distant. The same tone she used weeks ago when I'd first started checking on her injuries and she wanted me gone as quickly as possible.
Every instinct I possess screams warnings. Something's wrong. Something shifted between sleeping and waking and I have no idea what.
"I didn't hear you get up." I take another step closer, my hand lifting to touch her shoulder.
She moves before I make contact, shifting sideways to rearrange a stack of clean bowls. The avoidance is deliberate. Clear.
Don't touch me.
I let my hand drop, forcing myself to stay calm despite the ice forming in my veins. "Did you sleep alright? Your shoulder?—"
"It's fine. Everything's fine." She still won't look at me.
"Ressa." I keep my voice gentle, non-threatening. The same tone I use with injured animals that might bolt if I move too quickly. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
Finally, she turns. Her face is composed, carefully neutral in that way people use when they're holding back too much emotion. Brown eyes meet mine without flinching, but there's nothing behind them. No warmth. No recognition of what passed between us just hours ago.
She looks exactly like she did in those first terrible weeks after we brought her here. Withdrawn. Protected by walls so thick I can't find purchase anywhere.
"I wanted to thank you," she says, her words coming out rehearsed. Prepared. "For everything you did this week. You helped me more than you know."
Something cold settles in my chest. "You don't have to thank me."
"I do though. You were patient with me. Kind. You helped me remember what it's like to feel safe again." She wraps her arms around herself, a clear barrier between us. "The festival was exactly what I needed."
Was.Past tense.
"But?" I ask, because there's clearly a but coming and part of me needs to hear it said out loud. Needs to understand exactly how badly I fucked this up.
She looks away, focusing on something past my shoulder. "But we were partners for the week. We paired up, we participated, and now it's over."
I can't make sense of what she is saying. "Theeventsare over."
But that doesn't matter, right? I thought she wanted to keep seeing me.
"Yes."
"And last night?—"
"Was part of the week." Her voice doesn't waver. Doesn't crack. She's rehearsed this conversation in her head already, worked out every word while I slept oblivious in her bed. "It was wonderful. You were wonderful. But the festival's done now."
I should argue. Should point out that what happened between us had nothing to do with some ridiculous festival Drogath concocted from misunderstood texts. Should remindher that she kissed me first, pulled me inside, told me she trusted me with words that felt like promises.
