It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a cookie.
But it feels like a victory—a tiny, perfect one.
Because if he’s eating something I made, then he’s let his guard down, even for a second.
And that’s all I ever need.
I push open the door and step into Camille’s office, the warmth of the hearth greeting me like a secret kept too long. Camille looks up from his desk, his green eyes sharp, assessing.
Always assessing.
“Hope,” he says, voice cool but not unkind. “You’re early.”
“I had a head start,” I say, setting the tray on his desk. “Thought you might appreciate something sweet to balance all that ink.”
He smiles faintly, leaning back. “That was considerate.”
I return the smile, but my gaze flickers to the sealed documents at his elbow. Letters from the southern border, if the wax sigil me
