Charles took a second longer to react than Don did—less startled, more puzzled.
He looked between Frostbite and Don as if he'd misheard a word, then tilted his head and leaned forward slightly over the table.
"I think you mean spar?" he asked, tone mild, almost courteous.
Frostbite's eyes slid to him.
She narrowed them just a fraction, enough to change the temperature. "I wasn't talking to you."
Charles leaned back, hands lifting in a small, conceding gesture. He went quiet.
Her attention snapped back to Don. "And I do mean fight."
Don stared at her for a second. Then, without urgency, he reached for his scone.
As far as he was concerned, he hadn't done a thing to her.
He lifted it, inspected the edge like he was deciding where to start, and said around it, "No thanks."
He bit down.
Crumbed pastry broke clean under his teeth. He chewed, slow and unconcerned, gaze drifting back to his cup like this was any other afternoon.
