It’s the one thing they couldn’t take from me.
The door opens.
My body reacts before thought catches up—Loss shifting, hands curling, fire flickering to life beneath my skin. I hate that this is my default now. Hate that every unexpected sound sends me spiraling into fight-or-flight. Hate that I can’t remember what it felt like to hear a door open and feel nothing but mild curiosity.
Selene stands in the doorway, two ceramic cups balanced on a wooden tray. Steam rises between us.
“Tea,” she announces. “Before you say you don’t want company—I’m not offering company. I’m offering caffeine. There’s a difference.”
The distinction is so perfectly semantic that I feel my mouth twitch despite myself.
“Is there?”
“Absolutely. Company implies conversation. Caffeine implies two people sitting in the same room, drinking hot beverages, occasionally making eye contact.” She crosses to the small table I’ve claimed near the window. “Eye contact is optional. I won’t be offended if you’d rather stare at your beautifully organized shelves.”
“They are beautifully organized.”
“They really are. The healers are terrified.” She settles into a chair, tucking her legs beneath her. “Apparently their previous system was ‘wherever there’s space’ and they’re convinced you’re going to discover their sins.”
“Already did. It’s on my list of things to address.”
“You have a list?”
“I have several lists.” I don’t sit, but I drift toward the table anyway—drawn by the steam, or the company I didn’t ask for, or the simple fact that Selene doesn’t look at me like I’m broken. “Lists of supplies needed. Lists of organizational improvements. Lists of questions I don’t have answers to yet.”
“That last one sounds exhausting.”
“It’s the longest.”
She laughs—bright and startling in this stone room that’s heard nothing but my quiet footsteps for three days. The sound catches me off guard. Makes something loosen in my chest that I didn’t realize was clenched.
“Sit,” she says. “The tea’s getting cold, and I climbed three flights of stairs because the lift in this place is—and I cannot stress this enough—a literal stone platform operated by pulleys. Medieval nonsense. I’ve told Drayke they need to modernize, but apparently ‘tradition’ is more important than ‘not dying in an elevator accident.’”
“It’s not an elevator if it’s operated by pulleys.”
“Thank you! That’s what I said!” She gestures emphatically at the empty chair. “See, this is why I like you. You understand the importance of accurate terminology.”
I sit. The chair is solid beneath me—real in a way that feels grounding. I wrap my fingers around the remaining cup and let the warmth seep into my palms.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you reorganized a medical facility in three days while recovering from trauma. I know you made color-coded lists for people who didn’t ask for them. I know you’re sitting in this room alone instead of screaming or crying or setting things on fire, which—speaking from experience—would all be completely valid responses.” She takes a sip of her tea. “I know enough.”
The matter-of-fact delivery undoes something in me. No pity. No careful tiptoeing around the obvious. Just acknowledgment, simple and clean.
“Screaming seemed unproductive.”
“Sometimes unproductive things are necessary.” Her gray eyes study me over the rim of her cup. “But I get it. I spent my first week here trying to convince myself that if I just stayed busy enough, I wouldn’t have time to fall apart.”
“Did it work?”
“God, no. I fell apart spectacularly. Set Drayke’s curtains on fire. Twice.” She grins at my expression. “In my defense, they were hideous curtains. Burgundy velvet. In a stone fortress. It was practically a public service.”
“Arson as interior design?”
“See, you understand.” Her grin widens. “Though I’d recommend starting smaller. Maybe a throw pillow. Work your way up to window treatments.”
I surprise myself by almost smiling. Almost.
