We finish our dinner and continue talking with Finn and Banks for a while. They’re easy to like. Finn’s loud and expressive, exactly as advertised, but Banks surprises me. He’s quieter, but sharper. His humor is quick and precise, the kind that lands clean and leaves no room for comeback.

  He wields words the same way he wields his staff. Efficient. Controlled. A little devastating.

  I make a mental note that I would not want to be on the receiving end of a remark he actually meant to hurt.

  Eventually we excuse ourselves and head back toward our rooms. The embarrassment has faded, but not all the way. It clings like heat after exertion. The halls are quieter now, the energy of the day winding down.

  It’s been a long day. An emotional one, especially for Kai. I feel wrung out myself. Watching someone you care about go through something like that takes more out of you than you expect. You want to help, to fix it, but sometimes all you can offer is presence.

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  And that has to be enough.

  We reach our room and set our things down along the wall. I turn toward the washroom, already thinking about warm water and getting the day off my skin, when Kai’s hand closes around my arm.

  He steps in behind me and rests his head against the back of my neck. The contact is gentle, familiar, grounding.

  “I’m sorry about earlier,” he says quietly. “About saying that in public. I’m not ashamed. I just… they didn’t need to know.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell him without hesitation. “It was actually pretty funny once I stopped wanting to die.” I let out a soft breath. “And you’ve had a rough few days. Your brain’s fried.”

  He stays where he is, and I can feel him nod against my neck.

  “Let’s meditate and go to bed,” I add. Then, after a moment, I sigh. “I haven’t slept well since you left.”

  His forehead presses a little more firmly against me. Another nod.

  We wash up without talking much and climb onto the bed. We sit back to back, the way we always do. We figured out a long time ago that meditation works better when there’s contact. Not distracting. Just reassuring.

  When we’re done, neither of us says anything. We just shift and lie back, still touching, backs pressed together.

  Sleep comes easy this time.

  It’s the first peaceful night I’ve had all week, and I didn’t realize how much I missed it until it was gone.