Under the Shadows

Elyne sat on the couch, staring at the book in her lap without really reading it. Her mind replayed the previous night in endless, unforgiving detail. The way he'd unraveled her so easily, the way she'd hesitated at the crucial moment. She had let the control slip from her fingers, and now he'd see through her at every turn. She cursed herself under her breath, her fingers tightening around the edges of the book.

"You're playing a game, and I don't like being played".

The words rang in her ears, sharp and cutting. She hated how right he was, how easily he had picked her apart. She'd let her guard down too much, pushed too far, and now she'd burned her chance. She could feel it. He wouldn't fall for the same tricks again.

When the Reclaimer finally returned, the air in the room shifted immediately. He carried an armful of supplies, his movements brisk and calculated as he deposited them on the counter. His sleeves were rolled up again, his forearms dusted with grime, and his sharp green eyes flicked to her briefly before returning to his task.

"Sleep well?" she ventured, her voice light but careful, testing the waters.

"Fine," he replied curtly, not looking up from the bag he was emptying.

The single word cut deeper than she'd expected. There was no teasing edge, no sardonic smirk—just a cool, detached efficiency that felt entirely foreign. For a moment, she regretted speaking at all.

She closed the book, setting it aside as she leaned back against the couch. "Busy morning?"

"Something like that," he said shortly. His tone wasn't harsh, but it was distant, clipped, as if the effort of answering her was a chore.

The silence that followed was heavy, tense. Elyne fidgeted with the edge of the book, her usual confidence faltering under the weight of his disinterest. She hated how much it bothered her.

The sound of shattering glass broke the quiet. Elyne's head snapped up just in time to see the Reclaimer staring down at the remains of a jar, its contents pooling on the counter and dripping to the floor.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening as he crouched to assess the mess.

Elyne watched him for a moment, debating whether to say anything. Then she stood, grabbing a rag from the sink. "Guess you're not perfect after all," she remarked, keeping her tone light but letting a trace of amusement creep in.

His green eyes flicked to hers, sharp and assessing, before returning to the mess. "Clearly not," he said dryly, brushing a shard of glass into his palm with more force than necessary.

She approached cautiously, holding out the rag. "Here. Before you cut yourself."

For a moment, she thought he might brush her off. But then he took the rag without a word, his fingers briefly brushing hers before he turned back to the mess.

She moved toward the spill, crouching down beside him. For a moment, neither of them spoke as they worked to clean up the mess. The silence wasn't as sharp now, dulled by the shared task. Elyne found herself glancing at him from the corner of her eye, noting the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the slight tension in his jaw. His hands, strong and steady, moved with precision as he swept shards of glass into a small pile.

"You're weirdly bad at this," she said finally, her voice quieter than usual but carrying a faint edge of humor.

His lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk ghosting across his face. "I don't make a habit of cleaning up after myself."

"Figures," she muttered, though her tone lacked venom.

They worked in relative quiet for another minute before he spoke again, his voice softer this time. "I wasn't lying, you know."