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“You do not want it,” he stated, his voice flat.

“Correct.”

“Then discard it.”

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. “You ate yours.”

“Yes.” His eyes narrowed slightly.

“And you said it was acceptable.”

A barely perceptible pause. “Yes.”

“That makes you the designated eater of terrible alien food.” I couldn’t keep the teasing edge from my voice.

His eyebrows drew together in that particular Veyr expression of processing illogical input. “That is not a recognized designation.”

“It is now.” I pushed the container another inch closer.

He looked at the food, then at me, his gaze lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he reached out and took it. His fingers brushed against mine—warm, calloused, deliberate.

Something warm and ridiculous fluttered through my chest like a trapped bird. I folded my hands in my lap, ignoring the sensation.

There was no tactical advantage to sharing unwanted dinner. No mission parameter required it. Maybe that was exactly why it mattered.

For five minutes, we were not a fugitive and the covert operative sent to retrieve her.

We were two people in a rental arguing about food.

I had almost forgotten life could contain things that small. Then my gaze caught the terminal again. Reality returned.

I wiped my fingers and turned back to the reconstructed records. “Show me the identifier structure again.”

Veyr hesitated.

I looked up. “If you want me to remember what I saw in Sera’n’s comparison, I need to know what matters.”

“That is not information you should have.”

My patience thinned immediately. “There it is.”

He frowned. “The wall?”

“The invisible one you keep throwing up every time the conversation gets close to something useful.”

His expression hardened. “Restricted information remains restricted regardless of your frustration.”

“And how exactly is that working out for you?”

Silence.

I regretted the words as soon as they landed. Not because they were wrong. Because I saw the effect.

His body changed in that particular Veyr way that meant I had gotten too close to something. His hand, which had been resting near the terminal, stopped moving entirely.

I softened my voice. “Your safehouse was queried.”

“I am aware.”