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Servants began clearing the plates. The scrape of wood on stone sounded distant, unimportant. Beneath the table, his knee brushed hers. This time, neither pretended it was accidental. His leg remained where it was, solid and warm against her own. A silent question.

Her breath slowed. She did not move away.

His hand shifted slightly on the table, closer to hers, though not touching. Not yet.

“This house feels different,” he said, his voice lowered so only she could hear. “Since you ceased trying to vanish within it.”

Her throat tightened. “And does that displease you?”

“Nay.” His answer came without hesitation. “It unsettles me.”

“Why?”

“Because I no longer trust myself to remain unmoved.”

The confession was quiet. Barely above a breath. But it carried more weight than any oath sworn in court.

Her pulse beat hard enough that she was certain he must see it at her throat. She realised then that this dinner was not merely sustenance. It was a declaration, silent but unmistakable, to the household and to one another.

When the last of the dishes had been cleared, Mrs Jacoby gave Sorcha a look that was entirely too perceptive before ushering Elsie from the room. The door shut with a soft, knowing click.

Gavan remained seated a heartbeat longer, watching the fire rather than her.

Sorcha rose first. The scrape of her chair against stone seemed louder than it should have been.

He looked up. The movement forced him to stand as well. They faced one another.

“You should rest,” he said quietly, though he made no move towards the door.

“So should you,” she replied.

Neither stepped away.

The firelight flickered across his features. He looked like a man holding himself on the edge of something.

“You said I had changed,” he murmured.

“Aye.”

He came around the table then, not hurried, not hesitant. Deliberate. Each step erased distance. “You have changed as well,” he said.

Her breath faltered. “How?”

“You no longer brace yourself as though expecting to be dismissed.”

She swallowed. “Perhaps I am tired of bracing.”

He stopped an arm’s length from her. Close enough to feel the warmth of him. Not touching. Not yet.

“You are trembling,” he observed.

“I am not.”

A faint smile came to his lips. “You are.” His hand lifted slowly, giving her every chance to retreat. He brushed her hair back from her cheek, fingers trailing along her jaw.

She leaned into it as his other hand found her waist, firm, steady, drawing her the smallest breath closer.

“Gavan . . .” she whispered.