He was looking at the floor. His jaw was set. The collar at his throat was a steady, quiet red.
If I hadn't matched. If my hand hadn't fit on that collar.
He didn't look back at me.
The screen chimed. Sherman swiped through the readout, frowned, and swiped again. "Ten percent."
"Ten percent what?" I asked.
"Bond stability." She finally looked up, and her slate-gray eyes moved between us like she was solving for a variable. "The average pair sits at forty-five. Yours is critically fragile."
"That's bad."
"That's dangerous." She tapped her tablet. "I assume the two of you have not engaged in close physical contact since the failed mission."
The room got very quiet.
Vane's collar flickered. So did my face.
"We'll work on it," he said.
"Yep," I said. "Working. On it."
Sherman's exp
