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Alcott smiles. “Nonexplosive smoke.”

“That distinction does not comfort me.”

“It should. It shows restraint.”

Lazarus leans toward me and whispers, “He is very proud of his restraint.”

“I am proud when he practices any.”

Alcott does not look up. “I hear everything.”

“Good,” Lazarus says. “Then hear that we adore you.”

Alcott’s pencil pauses. Only for half a second, then the room softens again. That keeps happening now. Little moments where affection slips through the cracks between danger and planning, and instead of pretending not to notice, we let it stay. I set my tea down and lower myself onto my stomach among the blankets, propping my chin on one hand while studying the map from the floor.

Lazarus immediately tosses a pillow near my ribs. “For comfort.”

“It hit me.”

“Comfortably.”

Edward glances down at me. His expression changes.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

His mouth curves with a half crooked smile. He leaves the map table and sits beside me on the floor, one knee bent, one hand resting near my shoulder but not on me. I lean slightly until my arm brushes his fingers. His hand settles over my upper back, warm and careful. The touch is light at first, a question. When I do not flinch, his palm moves slowly between my shoulder blades, a slow, soothing path. I close my eyes. For a moment, the world becomes firelight, rain, and Edward’s hand.

“Tell them,” I say.

His hand pauses.

“Tell them what?”

“How we first met.”

Lazarus gasps. “There is a story I do not know?”

“You know the workshop,” Alcott says.

“No,” I murmur. “Before.”

Edward is quiet, his fingers resume their slow path over my back. Lazarus sits up, the room becomes attentive in that way only these men can conjure. Edward’s voice is softer when he speaks. “It was at the little café near the east market. I did not know her name, she did not know mine. For months, we met behind those screens. Occasionally luncheon, but always separated.”

“Why?” Alcott asks, though I suspect he knows.

Edward’s hand stills. Then continues, “Because seeing someone makes things real.”

The fire pops softly. I breathe through it and his hand remains steady.

“And we were both hiding,” I say.

Edward’s voice lowers. “Yes.”

I remember those mornings now with a clarity that hurts. Steam rising from tea, and my gloves folded beside my plate. His laugh, rare at first, then easier. Neither of us asking the questions that mattered because the answers might have required us to stop.