The night was wearing on—it had been hours since the Dregs had finally stumbled to their beds with shouts and slamming doors after an evening of heavy carousing—when Inej’s shadow at last disturbed the moonlight pooling on the floor of Kaz’s room, and her fingers picked at the latch on his window, purposely left unlocked because he had received word earlier in the evening that The Wraith had been spotted sailing into the harbor.

Kaz still sat at his desk, not working, but waiting—waiting for the moment the moonlight would frame her form in the window, silhouetting her against the light, and she would steal across the floor of his room, heedful of each betraying floorboard, and take his ungloved hands in hers and pull him to sit next to her on his bed, their bodies close enough to feel each other’s heat but not to touch, not yet.

Inej slipped through his window in one fluid movement, lit by moonlight and carrying with her the salt-scent of the sea, and her eyes were bright as she pulled him from his chair, her hands warm—alive, alive, alive—around his, but she did not tug him to his bed; instead, she stood on her toes, her breath fanning over his face as she waited for him to react, to refuse, and when he didn’t, his heart stuttering in his chest at her nearness and his eyes tight against the memory of Jordie’s bloated skin, she pressed her lips to his cheek, lingering for a moment, and the memories faded with the warmth of her lips on his skin.