His eyes moved over her in a way that had nothing to do with mourning.
She looked back at him with the expression she'd developed specifically for these moments — not cold, which he'd push back on, not warm, which he'd take as encouragement, just — level. A face that gave him nothing to hold.
His hand found her hip.
Not her elbow. Not her arm. Her hip, through the fabric of the mourning dress, the fingers pressing with a familiarity he hadn't earned and was claiming anyway.
She stepped sideways. His hand stretched, adjusted, tracked her movement but didn't tighten. The performance of a man giving space while ensuring he didn't actually let go.
"Victor." Her voice was even. "There are people here."
