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“You were formidable.”

That does it.

Her face changes, and for one breath she simply lets herself feel the word. No joke. No deflection. No flinch. The joy in her is not large or loud. It is deep, almost disbelieving, like water finding a channel through stone after years of being dammed.

Then she clears her throat. “Formidable is a dangerous word to use on me. I might develop a cape.”

“You would trip over it in a ruin.”

“Probably. But dramatically.”

I touch the side of her face with two fingers, not caring who sees. “You are happy.”

She looks past me, then back, and this time she does not deny it. “Yeah. I think I am.”

My hearts answer with something quieter than triumph and stronger than relief.

“I like seeing it,” I say.

Her eyes brighten. “Careful, Vek’Talan. You’re becoming sentimental in your old age.”

“I am.”

She freezes.

I enjoy surprising her.

“You are?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“No argument?”

“No.”

“No dry correction about your equiIkkev nt aging cycle?”

“No.”

She points at me, narrowing her eyes. “Who are you, and what have you done with my emotionally constipated security contractor?”

“I am still emotionally disciplined.”

“Sure. But now you’re disciplined with feelings showing.”

“Is that undesirable?”

Her expression softens into something so tender that my chest tightens. “No. It is extremely desirable, actually. Annoyingly so.”

“Good.”

She steps closer, lowering her voice. “You really are okay with being sentimental?”

“I survived the loss of sacred certainty. I believe I can survive affection.”

“That may be my favorite thing you’ve ever said.”

“I will make a note.”