The words land harder than they should.
Not because gratitude is rare. I have had men thank me while kneeling in blood. I have had women thank me for favors that cost me nothing and saved them everything. I have had families thank me for protection they would not have needed if my world didn't exist in the first place.
Maya thanking me is different.
She doesn't give the words because they are expected. She doesn't soften them to manipulate me. She doesn't like giving them at all. I feel that in the tension that moves through her as soon as she says it.
It costs her.
That makes it worth more.
I look down at her. “For what?”
Her lashes lower, then lift again. “Helping him.”
“He needed a doctor.”
“And you called one.”
“It is my house.”
I could point out that she came to me because she had no phone. I could remind her that every useful thing that happened today happened because the structure of my house allowed it. I could make her gratitude uncomfortable enough that she retreats into anger, because anger is what she understands from me and what I understand from her.
Instead, I smile.
Slowly.
“Careful, Maya.”
Her brow furrows. “What?”
“If you are grateful, I may expect a reward.”
For half a second, she only stares at me.
Then the sleep clears enough for suspicion to return.
“There it is,” she whispers.
“There what is?”
“The trap.”
“I prefer opportunity.”
“You would.”
“I am generous that way.”
Her mouth finally curves, faint and tired and reluctant. “I should have known you would be sneaky about it.”
“Sneaky?”
“You waited until I was exhausted and emotionally compromised.”
She gives a quiet, breathless laugh that she seems too tired to stop.
The sound moves through me with more force than it should and I nearly stop walking.
