"You make me tea because you don't trust me in the kitchen," says Harrow, keenly aware of the shift of Gideon's hand, counting each slow touch to the curving lines of her ribcage. Faint tension settles in the line of her back and the angle of her shoulders, but she doesn't move away. Her teeth catch her lip, reminded of their prior conversation, of the desperate measures she'd been pushed to on the Mithraeum.

"Nor should you, frankly."