His lips were still pressed to her forehead when he felt it.
A tremor — small, quiet, barely anything — moving through her body like a current passing under still water.
He stilled.
Then her lips parted.
"...Kenji."
The name landed in the room like a stone dropped into glass.
Raven pulled back.
Just slightly — just enough to look at her face properly — and what he found there was the soft, parted expression of a woman whose sleeping mind was somewhere else entirely, not here, not with him, her lashes still faintly wet from earlier, her lips barely curved around someone else's name like it was something precious she was keeping safe even unconscious.
'Kenji.'
His jaw set.
It wasn't rage — Raven didn't do rage, not cleanly — it was something quieter and uglier, that particular cold flicker in the chest that belongs to men who do not lose, who have never had to learn how.
He let his eyes drop, slow and deliberate, down from her face to the floor of the van.
