He crushed me against his chest, his arms locking around me like iron bands. His hands were still shaking, fingers flexing against my back like he couldn’t quite let go. His breath was harsh against my ear; his body still braced like we were hanging over the edge instead of lying on solid ground.
For a moment, neither of us moved, too stunned to trust the stone beneath us.
“You’re not allowed to die,” he rasped.
I couldn’t breathe. “You caught me.”
“Of course I did.” He pulled back enough to look at me, his face pale, eyes wide, voice trembling. “Do you think I’d ever let you fall?”
Tears blurred my vision. “You let me go every day.”
He shut his eyes for a brief moment.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered. “To care for someone without ruining it. I wasn’t taught how to hold things that matter. Only how to survive.”
I curled my hands into his tunic. “Then you learn.”
We sat there trembling, tangled, and stupid, with my head against his shoulder and the entire world steaming around us.
Finally, he muttered, voice cracking: “You smell like crushed herbs and panic, Princess.”
I laughed through the tears.
For a long time, neither of us moved.
His arms were still around me, not in panic now, but something quieter.
My face was against his chest, and for the first time, I realized how fast his heart raced. Not the rhythm of battle or rage but something vulnerable. Something like fear.
I leaned back far enough to look at him.
His brow furrowed; his mouth parted slightly like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. The bruises under his eyes were worse up close, exhaustion blooming like shadow petals under his lashes. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days.
No…someone who hadn’t rested in years.
“You meant it,” I said softly.
His eyes flicked to mine. “Meant what?”
“What you said. About not knowing how to hold things that matter.”
He looked away, jaw tight. “Yes.”
I shook my head. “So…I matter? To you?”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. He was still trying to stay armored, even here, even now, but he wasn’t built for armor. He was built for silence. For stillness. For the edge of a blade.
And yet at this moment, he wasn’t holding a weapon. He was holding me.
“Yes,” he breathed.
I reached up, brushing the edge of a scrape on his temple. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I’ve always done it alone.”
“You don’t have to keep choosing that.”
His gaze finally returned to mine, and it hurt; how raw it was. Like he’d let no one look that deep before.
