I didn't tell her no. I've learned a few things, and one of them is that saying no to a crying Vance in a frozen window seat gets you a lecture and a cold front.
Instead I sat there and let her soak my hoodie. Her hair smelled like winter flowers and expensive shampoo. Her shoulders shook against my chest, and every shake sent a fresh wave of frost up the glass behind her.
"Okay, I won't say it yet," I said into the top of her head. "I'm going to think it very loudly, though."
"I can hear you thinking it." She sniffed, then sat up and wiped her eyes on the cardigan sleeve. "You get a little crease between your eyebrows when you're about to be noble and stupid. Natalia showed me a picture."
"Natalia has a picture of my forehead?"
"She has forty pictures of your forehead. They're labeled by mood."
