(Filed under: The Pact of Exit, Pawn moves)
Jack’s casserole was still steaming on the counter, the air heavy with that mix of something savory and something sharpened. Velin was there—quiet, deliberate—drying each plate and setting it aside without the scrape of ceramic on ceramic. He moved behind her once, the brush of his sleeve at her side, and then again—closer this time. Not rushing, not intruding, just part of the rhythm of the room. The clink of a plate being set in the drying rack, the soft scrape of a fork against porcelain and then, in the pass of a dish, his fingers brushed hers just enough to let her feel the heat of his skin, just enough for her to know it wasn’t by accident. When he returned the space between them, her palm closed on something that wasn’t porcelain at all.
Warm ink. Fresh. She closed her fingers around the warmth, as if loosening them too soon might let the meaning spill out before she was ready. She didn’t open her hand, not while the kitchen hummed with quiet motions — the scrape of Jack’s chair, the faint clink of casserole being served without ceremony, the soft drip…drip of water from the faucet she hadn’t turned off yet. Her cheeks flamed pink and her lip trembled. He knew.