With a resigned sigh, she recalibrated her wards once again. Not to allow him through, certainly, but to finally reopen the channels of communication, to allow his owl to her window if it ever were to come. If he wanted her, wanted to speak with her with words rather than glances across a dingy, poorly-lit pub, he could do so. But she wouldn’t wait around for any proclamation of love—that would be silly. She wouldn’t hope any longer. If he wanted to get through her walls again, he’d have to do it with some effort. Not too much, as she knew she was still not immune to him or his charms, but some effort. She respected herself enough for that.