"Thank you," her voice is quiet when she answers as Gingerbread--named by the rescue, not them--proceeds to press his head against Roland's leg for attention. "I didn't know you were home. You're not usually that quiet in your study."

It's another subtle hint, one of many, of a past that they'd rarely discussed. To be fair, neither of them did--Roland didn't talk much of his career or life, and Riza had every reason to hide it. She had agreed to this to keep her unusual circumstances secret. Here, she'd never worked with the military. Had never fought. But now and again as she came to find Roland more trustworthy, she'd let slip hints of a life that had 'never been': the militaristic stiffness in her posture, her comfort with a handgun, senses so sharp that she could ordinarily hear him working quietly in his study across the house when she came in.

His smile doesn't quite charm her, but she does find herself at least smiling politely in return. She may have been pressed into the situation, but that didn't mean she disliked Roland. It just also did little to change how reserved she was at her core, particularly with those she wasn't very close to.

His fingers brush against hers as she takes out the small tin of tea she'd gotten to replace the one that was empty. "I was going to make tea. Would you like some?"