It was strange how the kindness in his eyes and voice set her heart to racing with elation yet also made her want to cry. She pulled the mask off her face and used it to wipe her eyes. The simplest solution to her problem was to bash his head in but she had misgivings about that being the best way to go about it. Instead she returned to stacking her things back in their places in her bag and cleaning up the best she could under the light of the one torch.
The dirt whispered under his feet as he approached her and his presence was as disturbing as a current in deep water sweeping her willy-nilly into unknown regions. His hand came into her line of sight, startling her, and she gasped out loud before realizing he was only returning the empty bowl to her. She took it from him without comment and concentrated on cleaning it so he wouldn't see how embarrassed she was at her own foolishness.
He went back to his mat and she could tell from the sounds that he was putting his armor back on. "Was there anything left of my shirt?" he said. "Even if it just a rag now, it would be better than wearing the leathers against my skin."
She sprang to her feet and ran to where his shirt hung below the torch. "Here it is," she said, holding it out to him. "Mended and washed." The pleasantly surprised look on his face was almost too much for her to bear. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "Not all the stains came out and my needlework isn't that good but like you said, better than nothing."
"Thank you, May," he said, smiling at her as he shrugged into it. "There is more to you than meets the eye."
"Just remember not to turn your back," she blurted as a wave of bitterness suddenly swept through her. "Can't trust rogues, you know." She steeled herself to meet his eyes, determined not to be the first to look away.
He frowned at her, plainly confused, then went to the door and knocked out a signal against the wood. After speaking to the guard who had opened the door, he went back to his sleeping mat and quickly put on the rest of his armor without saying another word to her.
She turned away and shouldered her bag, dismayed at herself that once again she had felt it necessary to kill all feelings of goodwill directed her way. When she looked up he was standing by door with that guarded look in his eyes again. She was a rogue; what else could he expect?
Her fierce glare did not convince him; not when he had seen the hangdog look on her face and how her shoulders had sagged before she had turned to pick up her pack. It had taken quite a bit of self control not to call her out for acting like a child. When she came closer he realized with a sense of befuddled wonder that she was smaller than he remembered. The first time he had laid eyes on her she had loomed over him, projecting an aura of swift, deadly power. Now he could see that the top of her head barely came as high as his shoulder and the dark smudges of her eyes in her pale face made her look weak and fragile.