The breakfast dishes were half-cleared when Mom's hand found mine under the table.
Not accidental. Deliberate. Her thumb tracing circles on my palm in that way only she could—the touch that said I see you without words. The touch that had evolved from maternal comfort to something more complicated, more intimate, more ours in the days since everything changed between us.
"Baby," she said softly, voice pitched under the noise of Jasmine and Madison debating whether the Blade's acceleration could outpace the Reaper's raw power. "Did you sleep?"
I didn't answer. Didn't need to.
Her eyes—those dark, knowing eyes that had watched me grow from a scared orphan into whatever the fuck I was now—narrowed with the kind of assessment that came from sixteen years of reading my bullshit.
"Peter."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying." Her grip tightened. "I can always tell when you're lying. Your jaw does this thing."
"My jaw doesn't do a thing."
