I leaned one hand against the counter, not crowding her, not backing off either. “I’m not deciding anything. I’m reacting to what you already did.”
“Which was—what? Sleeping on my own couch?”
“Making a bad call,” I corrected.
Her lips pressed together. “It was my call to make.”
“And now it’s my problem when you can’t keep up later.”
I watched it register. Watched the way she didn’t flinch from it.
Interesting.
“I will keep up,” she bit. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“I’m not worried about you,” I replied. Not entirely true. But it was close enough.
Her chin lifted just slightly. “Good.”
For a second, we just stood there, the space between us charged in a way that had nothing to do with the situation we’d been handed and everything to do with how quickly she had shifted.
Last night, she had been scrambling. This morning, she was steady.
Tired, yes. But steady.
I picked up the fork and tapped it once against the edge of the plate before sliding it closer to her. “Eat.”
She looked down at it, then back up at me again, something unreadable passing through her expression.
“You’re rude,” she snickered.
“I’m efficient.”
“You’re condescending.”
“You’re on three hours of sleep and pretending that’s sustainable.”
That almost got a reaction. Almost. Instead, she let out a quiet breath through her nose and reached for the fork.
Small victory.
She took a bite, chewing slowly, her eyes never leaving mine like she didn’t trust me not to say something else the second she looked away.
“You’re not as intimidating as everyone makes you out to be,” she snickered after a second.
“That’s disappointing.”
That did it. A flicker of something sharper crossed her face, quick and gone, replaced by something steadier. Determined. I watched her for a second longer than necessary. Shedidn’t look away this time. Didn’t fold. Didn’t retreat back into that uncertain version of herself from last night.
Whatever pressure she was under, whatever had put her in that room and kept her there when she should have walked out, it wasn’t making her smaller. It was doing the opposite. That was going to be a problem.
I let my attention drift to my own plate, wishing I had my coffee maker and imported beans. The small tin of aged Folders was not helping my edge soften to my handler.
“If you don’t drink coffee, what do you drink?” The simple question was bitter rolling from my tongue but I needed something to fill the quiet before my thoughts had a chance to attack.
She blinked while swallowing a mouthful of strawberry. “Chai or English Breakfast.” She paused with a simple shrug. “Tea of any kind, really.”
I nodded once, filing that away like it mattered. It didn’t. But it wasn’t useless either.