Page 165 of Shadowfox

Thomas stirred, one arm tightening around my waist. “You’re staring.”

“I’m admiring,” I whispered.

“You’re thinking.”

“Same thing.”

He groaned, his voice hoarse from sleep. “If it’s about breakfast, I’m not moving unless it comes with painkillers and coffee.”

“Our usual café?”

“The one with the asshole waiter?”

“Which one?”

He laughed. It was soft and genuine and wrapped around my heart like silk. “Pick one that serves strong espresso and looks the other way when we sit too close.”

“Noted.”

We began to untangle.

Every muscle protested. My lower back popped when I stretched.

Thomas hissed when he sat up, rubbing his still-healing shoulder.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Hurts like hell.”

“Want me to kiss it better?”

“Absolutely not.”

I kissed it anyway.

We moved through the room in quiet tandem, the way people do when they’ve memorized each other. I brushed my teeth while Thomas put on his socks. He folded the blanket while I poured two glasses of water. We dressed in whatever was cleanest, laughing over whose sweater smelled less like sweat and regret.

Then a softshhhpsound broke the stillness.

Something slid under the door.

We both turned.

“Well, fuck me,” Thomas sighed. “We just got here.”

I crossed the room and scooped up the envelope. There was no seal, no return address, only our names in neat, oversized handwriting.

It wasn’t a courier’s note.

It didn’t look like Agency.

It was something else.

I handed it to Thomas. He opened it with practiced caution, then stared for a long moment before smiling.

“What is it?”

He passed it to me without a word.

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