He worked through the last of the plates in an easy quiet, the water warm over his hands, the only sounds his own movements and the low creak of the house winding down for the night.
Aubrelle stayed where she was, her head tilted toward him, following him by the small noises he made the way she followed everything.
"You don't have to sit up with me," he said, drying the last dish. "You've had a longer day than any of us. Three days on a road, and a month before that."
"I know I don't have to." Her voice was soft, an ease in it she only wore when it came down to the two of them. "I want to. It's the first quiet in a month that didn't have my whole family talking over it. I'd rather spend it here, listening to you pretend those pans aren't soaking."
He huffed. "Cynthia has spies. I'm not risking it."
"Wise man."
He set the last of it aside, dried his hands, and crossed to her, and she turned her face up as he came, sightless and certain at once.
