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Right now, she’s at the stove, checking the burner. There’s a pan on low with oatmeal cooking. She straightens when she hears me behind her. Doesn’t turn around. Just stands a little taller.

“Morning, Annie,” I say.

She half turns. Offers a quiet “Good morning,” and nothing more.

I wait. She grabs a bowl from the cabinet. I clear my throat, louder than necessary.

“You’re not going to tell me that’s not your name?”

She glances over, quickly. Then back to the stove. “It’s not a big deal.”

“But it’s not your name.”

She shrugs. “People get it wrong all the time.”

“You wouldn’t allow Finn to get it wrong.”

She doesn’t answer that. Just spoons oatmeal into the bowl and reaches for the jar of honey.

I step to the side. She keeps her eyes down, focused on the counter. The muscles in her jaw twitch.

She drizzles the honey, sets the spoon down gently, and slides the bowl toward the center of the counter. Only then does she meet my eyes briefly. Her focus keeps drifting back to neutral ground, on anywhere but me.

“You don’t look me in the eyes,” I say.

“I’m looking at you now.”

“You’re looking at my chin.”

She lets out a small half-laugh, half-sigh.

“It’s not personal,” she says.

And what gets under my skin most is that it isn’t this way with Finn. Or Jonah. They get her attention, her eye contact, her soft laughs. I get the edge of her gaze and words she has to work to push out.

I haven’t done anything to earn that distance. But I feel it every time she glances right past me.

So I haven’t been soft or friendly with her. But I’m not soft or friendly with anyone. That’s not the way I’m built. I wasn’t raised that way and being in the Green Berets certainly didn’t make that any better.

But with her, it’s more than habit. It’s calculated.

Because I think she knows that I’m the one who sees through her performance. And I think she’s working hard to stay just out of reach.

That’s why I don’t trust her.

Not because she’s scared. But because she’s smart enough to know I’m the one asking the questions no one else wants to ask.

And maybe she’s worried I’m getting close to the answer.

There’s just something off, and the others are too caught up in her to see it. She tries to blend in like she belongs here, but I know better. I’ve seen her eyes when she thinks no one’s watching.

I don’t know what she’s running from, but I know she’s running.

She reaches for a napkin. Her fingers brush mine on the edge of the drawer, and she pulls back quickly.

I straighten, blocking the drawer as she tries again. “You always this skittish?”

“I’m not skittish. I’m cautious.”