Grace woke to the soft scrape of a chair. James had dozed sitting up, coat folded under his head, the paint smell still hanging in the air like a bad decision.
“James?" she said, small.
He straightened fast, the habit of a man who hated to be seen sleeping. “I'm here."
She sat up, clutched the quilt. “Thank you for staying."
He stood, adjusted his cuffs, put the armor back on. “You should change the locks."
“I will," she said. “Will you… come with me to the hardware store? We could grab breakfast after."
“Not today," he said. “I have meetings."
Her face tilted toward hope anyway. “Tonight, then. We can talk about… us."
His eyes flinched. He looked at the door, at the dried red slurs. He looked tired in a way sleep wouldn't fix. “There isn't an us," he said, careful.
The word cut.
