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Somewhere below us, a fresh round of laughter rolls through the Black Chapel.

"You know, my mother played the Noctis at Caervast before I was born," I tell him. "She was famous on Sero for a while."

That catches his attention, his gaze snapping back to me. "What happened?"

I look down at my drink before answering. "She got hurt." My voice comes out flatter than I expect. "There was an attack when I was a kid. My dad got me out. She was still in the car when he did. Lost her sight because of it."

"I'm so sorry," he breathes. Beneath the table, I feel him tense again around the slow pressure of my foot.

Rowan's fingers go still against the glass. "What kind of attack?"

I should shut this down. I don't talk about it. Not to anyone, and definitely not to a scholarship kid I've known two weeks. But those green eyes are fixed on me as if the answer matters, and something in my chest does a thing I don't have a name for.

"The kind you don't see coming." I turn my glass a slow half-circle on the table. "I mostly remember the noise. And her hand, reaching for me through the smoke while my dad hauled me the other way. I screamed the whole time. It didn't matter. Some things you don't get to save, no matter how much you'd burn for it."

Rowan doesn't tell me he's sorry again. He just looks at me, and for once there's nothing careful in it.

"That's why you fight," he says. Not a question. "You like being the one who's dangerous now."

It lands closer than I want it to. I've had people call me a monster to my face and never felt it. This shy little musician reads me in one sentence, and it sits under my ribs like a splinter. I almost tell him the rest. That I don't fight because I like it, that I fight because it's the one thing in my world nobody's allowed to take from me. I don't. Some things you don't hand a stranger, no matter how green his eyes are.

So I let the grin slide back into place. "Careful, little mouse. Keep looking at me like that and I'll start thinking you actually like me."

"I don't," he says.

But he holds my gaze this time, and doesn't look away.

"She still plays sometimes," I add. "She'll play tomorrow, during the legacy event."

"Um, yes," Rowan mutters.

I hold his gaze. Out of everyone in the Caervast conservatory, Halvern picked Rowan to perform. Coincidence, according to him. I don't believe in those. And tomorrow Dad will want every detail from this conversation. Every question. Every reaction.

But sitting here now, watching Rowan trying to stay composed while my foot keeps circling slowly against him beneath the table, I realize I don't want to hand him over. Not yet. I want him to myself a little longer first.

The waitress returns with another round, and Rowan reaches for his glass too quickly this time, clearly trying to recover some composure.

I lean back deeper into the booth while my foot stays between his legs beneath the table, resting just enough pressure there to keep him aware of it.

Every time he shifts, his breath catches, and I notice every single one.

"You're staring again," Rowan mutters, cheeks flushed from the alcohol now.

"Can you blame me?"

Rowan drops his gaze to his drink, making the booth feel too small.

Somewhere behind him, I catch sight of Lucan still draped all over Damaris near the bar while Rafe argues loudly with somebody over cards. Marius has somehow collected half the room around him already, grinning while two girls fight for his attention.

But Rowan keeps looking back at me.

Always back at me.

I let my foot drag higher between his legs, enough to make his breath hitch before he forces himself to hold my gaze. He's so beautifully responsive, every reaction reminding me just how little experience he has.

"You're doing that on purpose," he whispers.

"Doing what?"