There is nothing more intimate than knowing someone—truly knowing them. Not the version the world is allowed to see, but the layers beneath, the quiet tells that slip through no matter how hard you try to hide them. Brennan knew you that way. Better, perhaps, than you knew yourself.

He knew the precise moment heat would climb your neck and ears when anger sparked—a silent flare before the storm. He caught the minute twitch in your eye when frustration coiled too tightly, the almost imperceptible swallow when your throat constricted, the sheen in your gaze when tears hovered dangerously close. Brennan knew when to draw your mind away, pulling you into the steady harbor of his arms, letting the press of his neck and the familiar scent of leather, steel, and the faintest trace of parchment bleed the tension from you. He knew when to let you rage, leaning with folded arms against the nearest wall as you tore into someone deserving, his presence a quiet sentinel in the background until the fire burned itself out.

Tonight, though, it was different. You returned from the mission under the weight of exhaustion and something sharper—pain. The war table loomed, ringed by riders and scribes, Brennan at its head, his voice cutting through the air in even, measured tones. You stood straight, forcing your breathing into calm rhythm, the ache in your side a dull, pulsing reminder of the blow you’d taken. Cracked ribs, you were almost certain. But you kept your arms at your sides, your stance firm, the soldier’s mask unbroken.

Brennan’s gaze swept over you as you gave your report, and you felt the weight of it—not the casual glance of a commander, but the laser focus of someone who could read the story your body told in every small betrayal. The slight hitch when you turned. The way your hand ghosted your side. The half-breath too shallow to draw suspicion from anyone but him.

The meeting adjourned. You thought you’d made it. Until the room emptied, and Brennan didn’t leave.

“Stay,” he said, voice soft but carrying the steel of an order.

You froze in place. He crossed the distance in slow, deliberate steps, eyes holding yours with quiet intensity. “You’re hurt.” You shook your head. “I’m fine.” “You’re lying,” he replied, not unkindly. “And you’re terrible at it.”

His hands—warm, steady—rested at your sides for a fraction of a second, and the faintest grimace you couldn’t quite contain was all the confirmation he needed. “You think I don’t notice? That I haven’t spent years learning every tell you have?” His voice was a low murmur now, threaded with something between worry and reprimand. “You hide pain the same way you hide anger. You go still. Too still.”

You swallowed hard. “It wasn’t—” He cut you off gently. “It was enough to hurt you, and you decided to say nothing. Do you understand how reckless that is?” There was no venom in it, only the ache of someone who’d seen too much loss, who refused to watch it happen again.

Without waiting for permission, he lifted his hands, the familiar shimmer of his signet sparking to life. Warmth spread through your ribs, deep and steady, as the power threaded bone and sinew back together. You exhaled—part relief, part guilt—while his eyes stayed fixed, brow furrowed in quiet concentration.

“I can’t fight beside you if you make a habit of breaking yourself in silence,” he murmured. “I won’t stand at another grave because someone I care about thought they could handle it alone.”

The last of the pain ebbed. His hands lingered a moment longer than necessary, fingertips brushing along your ribs as if to anchor the point in place. Then, almost reluctantly, one hand rose to your jaw, tilting your face toward him. “I’m not just your commander,” he said quietly, thumb brushing against your cheek. “You don’t get to hide from me.”

You didn’t argue. Not this time. Because Brennan Sorrengail knew you—every tell, every truth—and loving him meant you never really could.