"You are." He studied her face. The freckles across her nose, the fullness of her mouth, the way she was holding herself like she expected a blow. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Mab."
She pulled her chin out of his grip. Looked away. "I went to the kitchen today. Got my things. My spare dress, my stockings." A breath. "This is what I look like. What I actually look like. Not borrowed silk that doesn't fit. Not nightgowns made for women half my size. This."
Varek sat back on his heels.
She thought—
She actually thought—
He wanted to laugh. Not at her, never at her, but at the absurdity of it. That she could look at him with those eyes and believe for one moment that a change of fabric would undo what the pull had carved into his bones.
"Stand up," he said.
Her gaze snapped to his face. Wary. Searching for the trap.
"Stand up, Mab."
She stood. Her hands stayed at her sides, but he could see the effort it cost her not to fold her arms across her stomach.
Varek rose to his full height and walked a slow circle around her.
The dress was rough. Practical. Made for work, gathered at the waist by a belt he recognized from the first night, cracked leather worn soft with years of use. The apron covered most of the front, stained with grease marks that told the story of a thousand meals. The kerchief hid her hair, pressed it flat against her skull like something that needed containing.
He reached out and tugged the kerchief off her head.
Her hair spilled down, red and wild, curling around her face and over her shoulders. She made a sound, a small protest, her hand coming up too late to stop him.
Varek dropped the kerchief on the floor.
"That's better." He moved behind her again. "Now the apron."
"Varek—"
"Take it off."
Her hands shook as she reached back to untie the strings. The apron fell away, and she caught it before it hit the floor, clutching it against her chest like armor.
He took it from her. Set it aside without looking where it landed.
"The belt," he said.
Mab's fingers fumbled at the cracked leather. When it slid free, she held it out to him without meeting his eyes.
Varek took it. Ran his thumb along the worn edge, feeling the years pressed into the leather.
"Now the dress."
She reached for the laces at her throat. Her fingers were clumsy, catching on the knots, and he watched her struggle without offering help. This wasn't about efficiency. This was about her choosing, step by step, to show him what she'd convinced herself would drive him away.
The laces came free. She pulled the dress over her head in one rough motion, like ripping off a bandage, and stood there in her chemise with her arms wrapped around her middle.
"Keep going."
"Varek—"
