Not if the leak is somewhere already inside the walls.
I step farther into the kitchen, letting my shoes make enough sound against the floor that I don’t startle her.
She doesn't turn right away, but the fear vanishes so fast it’s almost impressive. Not gone, exactly. Buried.
What she shows me instead is the same cool irritation she’s worn all day, though it’s different now that I know what’s under it.
“There you are,” she says.
I glance at the containers. “Bianca packed enough for an army.”
“She usually does.”
Her tone is dry. Flat.
I nod once and move toward the far side of the island, not too close, not crowding. I’ve learned enough about her in one day to know that if I start taking up too much of her air, she’ll bristle on instinct even if she’s tired enough not to want to.
“How’s the perimeter?” she asks.
The question is practical. That matters.
“Secure for tonight,” I say. “I reset two camera angles on the east side, checked every exterior door myself, and added one more motion light by the side gate.”
She doesn’t react outwardly, but I catch the tiny shift in her face when I mention that I added.
Not because she thinks I overstepped. Because she's reminded once again that this is real and ongoing.
I keep my voice even.
“I’ll do another pass before I turn in.”
She looks at me then, and I can see the urge to tell me not to bother rise and die behind her eyes. Too tired to argue. Too smart to waste the effort.
Instead, she says, “You think that’s necessary?”
“Yes.”
A beat passes.
She glances back down at the food.
“The restaurant was a bit much,” she says at last.
It’s the closest she’s come to mentioning it since we left.
I don’t answer too quickly.
“Yes,” I say. “It was.”
Her fingers rest against the edge of the foil. “You scared them.”
I study her face.
Not accusation, exactly. Not entirely.
Observation. Maybe a little resentment still. Maybe a little disbelief. Maybe the first honest admission that the thing bothering her is bigger now than just my presence.
“I know,” I say.
