“I’m not judging you.”
“You’re doing the concerned eyebrow thing.”
“The concerned eyebrow thing?”
“Yes.” He points the towel at my face. “The one where your eyebrows do that little pinch in the middle and you look like you’re about to interrogate me.”
I scowl. “I don’t have a concerned eyebrow thing.”
“You absolutely do. It’s very handsome, but also a little intimidating.”
Handsome. The word should not have the power to rattle me this much, and yet here we are.
I rinse the soap from my hands and turn to face him fully. “You’re tired.”
“I got up early.”
“You’ve been getting up early for a while and still had more energy than this.”
Wren opens his mouth, then closes it again. That’s all the answer I need.
I dry my hands on my apron and lower my voice. “You still aren’t sleeping.” His theory was wrong or I’m not strong enough to shield him from the dreams Lord Yelling sends him.
His shoulders drop just a little. He sets the towel down and leans his hip against the sink.
“Not really,” he admits. “I’m trying. I promise I’m trying. And I really thought sleeping in the same room would help. But I still dreamed of the Winter Court and Lord Yelling last night.”
“Wren.”
“I know.” He throws his head back.
I step closer without really thinking about it. My hand lands on his waist, thumb brushing over the side of his shirt. He goes still under my touch, eyes meeting mine.
“You look exhausted,” I say. “You have dark shadows under your eyes and you nearly nodded off while drying a pan.”
He won’t look at me. I don’t move my hand from his waist. I don’t want to.
“I’m sorry you’re still dealing with this.”
Wren’s gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts back to my eyes. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
I slide my other hand to his hip and draw him closer until there’s no space left between us. He comes willingly, hands settling against my chest like they belong there. Like he belongs there.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” I say.
Wren’s lashes flutter. “I know.”
“Do you?”
He nods once.
I brush my thumb over his side again, soothing myself as much as him.
His mouth curves, but there’s sadness in it. His fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt. “I’m not used to anyone noticing when I’m running myself to the ground. No one usually cares.”
My grip on his waist tightens before I can stop it. I hate that. Hate that he can say something like that and it makes me want to tear apart the world that taught him to keep going until he collapses.
“I notice,” I say.
