“Take yours off.”
He does. Immediately. That makes me angrier than if he had argued.
“What?” he asks.
“You keep doing that. Obeying.”
His brow lowers. “You prefer I ignore you?”
“No.”
“Then I do not understand.”
“Clearly.”
I shove the map into the roll with one hand and pain bright enough to make my eyes water. Kavor watches. Every muscle in him says he wants to help, but he doesn’t.
The air between us thickens. I hate this. I hate the restraint. I hate the care. I hate that he has learned just enough to make refusal feel cruel.
“You can carry the map,” I snap.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in him eases. He takes the map. I hate that too.
“We move,” I say.
“You need rest.”
“We need to get back to the City.”
“We may not be able to return the way we came,” he says.
“We find another way.”
“Your arm?—”
“Is attached.”
“Bleeding.”
“Less.”
“Hurting,” he says.
“Yes, Kavor. It hurts.” My voice cracks sharper than I intend. “Everything hurts. The tunnel hurts. The City hurts. Hunger hurts. Hope hurts. You standing there, looking at me like I am one bad step from shattering, hurts. I’m still moving.”
Silence slams down. Too much. Too honest. My breath comes hard. Kavor doesn’t move. His eyes are fixed on me, and whatever is in them is worse than pity. Pity would be easier to hate.
“I do not think you will shatter,” he says.
His voice is low and controlled. Dangerous in a different way.
“No?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then why are you watching me like that?”
“Because I want to keep everything from touching you.”
