The room was too small for two people and a dog, especially when one of those people had a sword, the other had a temper, and the dog had claimed the only blanket.

“You’re telling me,” you said, arms crossed, “that we’re stuck in this rotting tavern because your face is on every wanted poster in the empire?”

Renzo leaned back in the rickety chair, boots propped on the table, chewing on a sliver of dried fruit like he was the picture of relaxation.

“I wouldn’t say rotting.” he mused. “More like… charmingly decomposed.”

Pia let out a low huff from the bed—Renzo’s bed, which she had taken over the moment you all arrived. Her scruffy head poked out from under the blanket, eyes narrowed at you like you’re the guest here.

You pointed accusingly. “Why is she looking at me like that?”

“She senses judgment,” Renzo said solemnly, gesturing with his fruit. “Also, you took her spot by the fire last night. She holds grudges.”

“I’m starting to think she gets it from you.”

“Oh, I absolutely hold grudges,” Renzo grinned. “It's one of my many charms. Right next to smuggling, sarcasm, and inconveniently good looks.”

You looked heavenward, probably praying for patience—or a sharp object.

Renzo watched you for a beat longer than he meant to. Dirt on your cheek, a rip in your once-perfect coat, eyes burning brighter than any palace torch. Still standing. Still arguing.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t want to.

Instead, he stood, walking past you toward the door. On his way by, his fingers brushed your arm—too light to be an accident, too deliberate to be ignored.

You stiffened.

Renzo didn’t look back.

“I’ll be back before sundown. I need to find something out.” he said. “Don’t leave this room.”

“I’m not your prisoner.”

“No.” he said, pausing at the door. “But you’re mine to return. And I don’t like losing things that could make me rich.”

Pia growled softly.

“…And she doesn’t like you either.”