Inside, proximity stopped being a question. It became regulation. Warmth was a resource. They shared it like soldiers share a canteen on winter watch: no ceremony, strict fairness. Thalatha's hand found Mikhailis's hip without excuse or apology. The spot had become a signal: steady. He put his palm on the chair's rail near her thigh where she could see it and where it could not become a rumor. That mattered more than poetry.
When the ember's glow dropped to "safe," they let the morale ritual happen. A kiss, brief and clear. No sighs, no sound. Solemn enough to make fun of later if anyone ever felt like teasing them and lived. The kiss didn't distract her; it aligned her. Breath, pulse, patience clicked into place like teeth on a cog. She filed it under maintenance, the way you oil a hinge that matters, not something that needs praise.
