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“You eaten anything tonight?”

“I had… half a granola bar, three existential crises, and approximately one-third of a birthday cake straight from the box.”

His lips twitch. “Solid dinner.”

“I try to keep it balanced,” I mutter. “Add a little dread, a splash of poor financial planning -chef’s kiss.”

That earns a real smile. It’s small, quiet, but it hits harder than it has any right to.

I feel it somewhere in the base of my spine.

“You want to sit?” he asks. “There’s a quieter corner over there. Fewer scent trails. Less… glaring.”

He gestures vaguely toward a beta couple currently side-eyeing me like I’ve committed a felony by existing too close to their champagne tower.

“I can’t,” I say, raising the camera a little. “I’m working. This is me being professional.”

“Of course,” he says solemnly. “How could I interrupt such elite photojournalism of napkin sculptures and drunk people pretending they’re not sweating through their designer collars.”

I snort before I can stop myself. “You say that like it’s not art.”

“I’m sure the swan-shaped napkin will win an award,” he deadpans.

“I live in hope.”

He watches me again; his gaze all still and steady. One brow lifted, just a little.

“You sure you’re okay?”

I hesitate. “I’m fine.”

“Is that your real fine, or the fake fine people say before they fall over dramatically in public?”

“I’ll let you know if I plan on swooning,” I mutter. “I’d hate to ruin your shoes.”

He glances down at his boots - scuffed, worn, clearly lived-in.

“They’ve been through worse.”

And then his amber eyes find mine again - deep, steady, and kind.

And beneath my ribs, something old and primal stretches again.

Not sharp. Not panicked.

Justawake.

Curious.

Hungry.

Chapter Six

Rhea

This isn’t happening. Itcan’tbe happening.

I dosed. I always dose.

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