She was in the middle of ripping into a bannerman — sharp, relentless, absolutely unbothered by the room full of men shifting in their seats — when Cregan moved.

Not loud. Not harsh.

He simply stepped behind her and placed his hand at the back of her neck, right where spine met skin.

It always worked. Like grabbing the scruff of a wild pup — not to hurt, just to still.

She froze instantly. Her breath caught. Her voice died in her throat.

Her shoulders sank, not in defeat, but in something like recognition.

“I wasn’t finished,” she muttered under her breath.

“You were,” he said, calm as winter.

She said nothing more — but her eyes burned the longer he remained there.

“I hate when you do that,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, not letting go.

And in that quiet, they stayed—her storm contained, his cold steadiness holding fast.

Just enough to keep her from breaking.