Chapter Twelve
Before It Breaks
Lina
The tea was stronger than usual.
I took a sip and narrowed my eyes at him. “You adjusted the mix.”
“Yes.”
“You’re using the good leaves.”
“They were stored for a purpose.”
“And that purpose is me?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Heat rose in my chest that had nothing to do with the tea.
We ate sitting close on the edge of the bed, knees brushing. The quiet between us was no longer tentative.
We had shared this room for weeks—slept on opposite sides, disciplined, careful, honoring boundaries we never named.
Now the space felt… altered.
Not unfamiliar.
Warmer.
When I stood to dress, he turned away automatically, giving me privacy out of habit.
The gesture tightened something in my throat.
“You don’t have to turn,” I said softly.
He paused.
“Habit,” he said—but he didn’t move.
I crossed the room and touched his arm. “You can look.”
Slowly, he did.
There was no urgency in his gaze. No hunger. Just quiet appreciation—as if he were committing something fragile to memory.
“I am glad,” he said, “that you did not regret last night.”
The simplicity of it struck deeper than anything else could have.
“I don’t,” I said.
It was the easiest truth I’d spoken in years.
Some tension left his shoulders—something he had been carrying without naming.
Outside, the mountain shifted into its day cycle. The hum deepened, then steadied. A door sealed somewhere down the corridor. Footsteps passed.
