Page 100 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Then don't look guilty. Just look tired. It's Christmas morning. Everyone's tired.”

“I'm terrible at lying.”

“You're also terrible at hiding emotions, so try to think about something boring. Wehrmacht logistics. Laundry. Anything but last night.”

Too late. Already thinking about last night. About his hands and his mouth and the sounds he'd made and?—

“Art. Focus.”

Right. Focus. Christmas breakfast. Act normal. Pretend nothing had changed even though everything had changed.

I finished dressing in a chaotic rush, barely managing to button my shirt properly. My hair was a disaster. My tie refused to cooperate. My hands were shaking too badly to manage the knot.

Tom stepped in, gently pushed my hands away, and tied it himself. “There. Presentable.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey.” He caught my chin, made me look at him. “We're going to be fine. Just breathe. Be your usual brilliant, odd self. And maybe try not to stare at me across the room like I hung the moon.”

“I'll try. No promises.”

He kissed me then, quick and soft, and I melted into it despite the danger, despite everything. When he pulled back, he was smiling.

“Merry Christmas, Art.”

“Merry Christmas.”

Canteen was already packedwhen I slipped in, trying to look casual and probably failing spectacularly.

Someone had made an effort at decorating. More paper chains, a sad attempt at a Christmas tree made from wire anddecorated with folded paper ornaments, and actual food that didn't look like punishment. Scrambled eggs. Sausages. Fresh bread. Luxuries that suggested someone had called in favors or raided special stores.

Everyone was there, packed around tables, voices layered in forced festive cheer. Peter was already three drinks into whatever he'd spiked his breakfast with, telling increasingly elaborate stories to anyone who'd listen. Ruth sat with other cryptanalysts, looking tired but content. Noor waved at me from across the room, grinning knowingly.

And there, leaning against the wall in his usual spot, was Tom.

Our eyes met. Held.

Something hot and bright flared in my chest. He was here. Real. Not a dream or hallucination or Christmas miracle I'd imagined. Actually here, actually mine, actually looking at me with soft eyes that said he remembered last night and didn't regret it.

I had to look away before I did something stupid like cross the room and kiss him in front of everyone.

Found an empty seat near Ruth instead, slid in, tried to look normal.

“You look different,” Ruth observed immediately.

My heart stopped. “What?”

“I don't know. Less haunted than usual. Did you actually sleep last night?”

“Some. Yes. Slept.” True, technically. Eventually. After.

“Good. You needed it.” She turned back to her breakfast, apparently satisfied.

Across the room, Finch stood and cleared his throat. Conversations died reluctantly.

“Christmas greetings to you all,” he said, tone suggesting he'd rather be anywhere else. “I won't keep you from your breakfastwith a long speech. Just wanted to inform you that today and tomorrow, Christmas Day and Boxing Day, are designated leave days. Those of you who wish to visit London or the nearby town are authorized to do so. Passes will be available at the gate.”

Murmurs of surprise and pleasure rippled through the room. Actual leave. Proper leave. The chance to escape the estate, even briefly.