She was quiet again.
Not the kind of quiet that came from fear or pain—but the kind that came from reflection. Her fingers brushed over the lip of the tea cup she hadn’t touched in ten minutes, and her gaze flicked now and then to the window, where the sun stretched over frost-glazed leaves.
I didn’t speak.
I let the silence breathe between us, let her settle back into herself after hours of opening up.
We’d talked more in the past day than I had with most people in years.
But I wanted more.
And for once, it wasn’t about strategy, or control, or duty.
It was about her.
⸻
“I never thought I’d sit like this with someone,” she said suddenly, voice soft.
“Like what?”
“Unarmed,” she replied. “Not afraid.”
I looked at her. “You still carry too much fear.”
She didn’t deny it.
“I car
