The ice pack on Sarah’s wrist was melting, leaving a ring of water on the kitchen table.
It was the only sound in the apartment. Drip. Drip.
Morning light harsh and revealing, cut across the breakfast nook. Noah stood at the counter, his back to her, buttering toast.
Sarah wasn't eating. She was watching his hands.
She watched the way his fingers moved—steady, precise. She remembered the grip on the rooftop. The thumb pressing into the nerve cluster. The way the Ronin had twisted her arm without breaking it.
"Coffee?" Noah asked.
He turned around. He was wearing his pajamas—plaid flannel pants and a t-shirt that was inside out. His hair was a bird's nest. He looked like he had slept on a park bench, not in a bed.
"Please," Sarah said. Her voice was scratchy.
Noah picked up the pot.
