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He looked over his shoulder.

She held still. His eyes found her in the dark of the corridor, and his face didn’t change. No surprise, no accusation. He turned fully, leaned back against the counter, and folded his arms.

“Can’t sleep either,” he said.

“I was checking the corridor. West side.”

His mouth moved at the corner. He picked up the mug, looked at it, set it back down. “I made tea an hour ago. Forgot about it. It’s terrible.”

“Sounds about right.”

“I’ll take that.”

She stayed in the doorway. He stayed at the counter. Six feet of kitchen floor between them, the overhead light catching one side of his face, the other half in shadow. The whetstone sat on its towel, dark with oil. The knife beside it reflected a thin line of light across the ceiling.

“How long were you out there?” he asked.

“Two hours.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

She looked down. He was right. The tremor was fine, visible only because she was holding still, her fingers curled loosely at her sides. She pressed them flat against her thighs.

“I overtrained.”

“You’ve been overtraining for three days.”

“Thank you for the observation.”

“You’re welcome.” He picked up the cold tea, carried it to the sink, and tipped it out. Rinsed the mug. Set it upside down on the rack. “Sit down. I’ll make a fresh pot.”

“I’m not staying.”

“Sloane, you are here now. You’re exhausted, overtrained by your own account. You’re not going to fall asleep immediately. Sit down.”

She should have turned around. Instead, she pulled the chair out from the table, the chair he sat in during meals, and lowered herself into it. The wood was cold. She placed her hands flat on the surface, fingers spread.

He filled the kettle. Lit the burner. Leaned his hip against the counter while it heated, his arms folded, watching her with a focus that had nothing lazy in it.

“Stop looking at me.”

“You were looking at me for ten minutes through that door. I think I’m owed a few.”

Her face heated. She felt it rise across her cheekbones, a betrayal she couldn’t prevent, and she fixed her eyes on the knife across the counter because looking at him was worse.

“It was five minutes,” she said.

“It was ten.”

“You were sharpening a knife. It wasn’t riveting.”

“And yet.”

The kettle clicked. He poured. Brought two mugs to the table, set one in front of her, sat across from her with his own. She wrapped her hands around the ceramic because they were still shaking and the warmth helped.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“So should you.”