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We worked. We traced the same data trails, cross-referenced the same archives.

But the space between us had gone rigid. No accidental touch of his arm against mine, no low murmur of a joke as we passed the terminal back and forth.

The silence was a third presence in the room, heavy and unyielding.

His hand moved toward the display at the same moment mine did.

We both froze, fingers suspended inches apart.

In that suspended breath, I saw it again—the faint silver light beneath his skin in the dark, the press of his mouth, the solid weight of his hand pulling me closer against him.

He was the first to pull back.

“Sorry.”

The word was too formal.

I forced my throat to work. “It’s fine.”

We kept working.

Eventually I found another access event.

Six years, five months ago.

The royal identifier had requested a larger archive pull. Thirty-eight records. Warrior biological histories. Human compatibility assignments. Transfer manifests. Administrative overrides.

The request had been partially granted.

I stared at it. “He was escalating.”

“Yes.”

“He’d found enough to ask for more.”

“Likely.”

I looked at the screen. “Can you see what happened next?”

He searched.

Nothing.

I tried another archive.

Nothing.

Then I found a system notice.

ROYAL AUTHORIZATION RESTRICTED.

Date—three days after the large archive request.

I frowned. “Can royal access just be restricted?”

“Not easily.”

“By who?”