Remy's response to what she told him was not what she expected.
She'd expected analysis. The systematic unpacking of her insight, the cross-referencing with his texts, the methodical reconstruction of the implication — all the things Remy did with information, the precise and careful turning of it in his hands until he'd examined every surface.
Instead he was quiet for a very long time.
They were in the library again — it was becoming genuinely their space, she thought, hers and Remy's specifically, the room where the serious intellectual work happened, where the texts lived and the light was right and the particular quality of his attention was most at home. She'd found him there after dinner, as she'd been finding him most evenings, and she'd told him what she'd told Jax in the kitche
