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I watched her.

She looked rested. Not completely, but enough that the shadows beneath her eyes had faded.

I wanted to touch her. I did not. Not yet.

Talia turned toward me. “So.”

“Yes.”

“You wanted privacy.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re standing there like you’re about to negotiate a hostage release.”

“I have negotiated hostage releases.”

“That explains some things.”

Her mouth curved, but the smile faded quickly.

Attention replaced it.

She knew this mattered. I gestured toward the sitting area, and she took one end of the couch. I sat at the other rather than across from her. Close enough to speak quietly. Far enough that the remaining distance belonged to her.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

Then Talia tilted her head. “You’re nervous.”

“No.”

She stared at me.

I reconsidered. “Yes.”

Her expression softened.

That was worse.

I looked toward the credential on the table.

“Before I say anything else, I need you to understand that nothing between us obligates you to me. Not recognition. Not sex. Not survival. Not what I did for you. Or what you did for me.”

Talia grew still.

“And if we choose the bond,” I continued, “it does not erase the choices I made before I learned better.”

“I know.”

“I needed to say it.”

“I know that too.”

I nodded.

That was enough. I had rehearsed longer versions. They had all sounded like arguments. I did not want to argue her into anything.

I looked down at my hands, at the old scars crossing my knuckles and the temporary identification band around my wrist.