"No." He doesn't look away. "I didn't have to."
"Then why?"
The question hangs in the air. I watch him struggle with the answer, watch the careful control waver and resettle.
"Because I was…" He stops, starts again. "Because I wanted to see for myself that you were safe."
"The tracker told you I was safe."
"Yes. It did."
"But you needed to see me anyway."
He doesn't answer. Doesn't have to. The admission is there in his silence, in the way he's looking at me, in the tension radiating from his perfectly controlled posture.
He takes a step toward me. Just one, but it closes half the distance between us. I can feel the coolness of him now, the strange absence of heat that marks him as something other than human.
"I've spent centuries making sure I don't care about anyone," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's safer. Simpler. Caring creates weakness, and weakness gets people killed."
"And me?" I ask. "Am I a weakness?"
His jaw tightens. "You're something worse."
"What?"
"A reason."
"Maybe..." I start, but I don't know how to finish after that statement that leaves my knees feeling weak. Maybe what? Maybe we're both broken in compatible ways? Maybe trauma recognizes trauma? Maybe this is just proximity and stress, and I'm reading something into nothing?
He reaches toward me. Slowly, like he's fighting himself with every inch. His fingers brush my jaw, feather-light, barely there.
A small gasp escapes me.
His hand hovers near my face, not quite touching, close enough that I can feel the ghost of contact. His eyes search mine, looking for something, permission, maybe. Or warning. Or both.
"I don't know what this is," he says quietly.
"Neither do I."
"That should concern me more than it does."
His thumb traces my cheekbone, still so light I might be imagining it. The touch sends electricity down my spine, pools heat in places I've been ignoring for eight months. I lean into his hand without meaning to, just slightly, just enough that my skin presses against his palm.
Something shifts in his expression. Wanting. Conflict. Fear.
Then he pulls back like he's been burned.
"You should rest." His voice is rough, strained, completely different from the controlled tones I'm used to. "Training tomorrow."
The whiplash leaves me dizzy. "Maximus…"
But he's already moving toward the door. Putting distance between us with every step.
"Good night, Celeste."
He leaves. Walks out of his own study, leaving me standing by the fire with my skin still tingling where he touched me.
I stare at the empty doorway, trying to process what just happened.
