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“Delete the route.”

“Already doing it.” I heard keys tapping softly on his end.

“Orun.”

“Yes?” He sounded distracted now, already moving on.

“If anyone contacts you⁠—”

He cut me off, voice dry. “I have known you too long to need that warning.”

I stared at the dark window, my reflection a ghost over the night outside. “You did not know me long.”

A beat of silence, then his reply came softer, weighted with things neither of us would say aloud. “Long enough.”

The answer settled heavily. I had no use for it. So I ended the call. The communicator went dark.

For several seconds, I remained where I was. The silence stretched, thick with the static of the disconnected call. Then Talia spoke, her voice carefully even.

“You told him I was irrelevant.”

I turned from the window. She sat with both arms folded tightly across her chest, one leg tucked beneath her.

“That is what you took from that conversation?” I asked, my tone flat.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “It was insulting.”

“It was protective.” The words came automatically, a soldier’s justification.

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation in their depths. “There’s that word again.”

I paused, reassessing. “It reduced the likelihood he would investigate you.”

Some of the tension left her shoulders. “That is better.”

“I meant the same thing.”

“I know.” She unfolded an arm to gesture toward the communicator on the table between us. “Who was he?”

“Old contact.”

“Military?” she pressed, leaning forward slightly.

“Former.”

“Friend?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly, too cleanly.

Talia studied me, her gaze lingering on my face as if reading data from a screen. I should have expected what came next.

“Would he say the same thing?” she asked softly.

“Yes.”

“You answered that too fast.” Her voice held no accusation, only observation.

“He would.” The certainty in my own voice surprised me.