He brushes a thumb lightly over my wrist and says, “You are thinking too loudly.”
“I’m always thinking too loudly.”
“Yes.”
I huff a small laugh, then let the quiet stretch for a second.
Finally I say, “We should talk about the baby.”
His expression changes at once—not alarm, not dread, just sharpened attention and a tenderness so unguarded it almost undoes me.
“Yes,” he says.
I stare at the dim line of rainlight on the ceiling for a beat before looking back at him. “I don’t want secrets.”
“No.”
“I don’t want the child growing up with half-truths because adults think history is too ugly for them. That’s how all of this starts. People deciding concealment is a form of care.”
His jaw tightens once, subtly. “Agreed.”
“I’m not saying we tell a toddler about war crimes over breakfast,” I say dryly.
“That would be unusual.”
“Thank you for your clinical input.”
“You’re welcome.”
I trace one finger absently through the blanket seam between us. “But eventually? I want honesty. About Kirell. About the tribunal. About Garran. About you. About me. About all of it.”
He does not flinch at the name. Good.
“Age-appropriate honesty,” he says.
“Yes.”
“No mythology.”
“No.”
“No heroic revisions.”
I snort softly. “God, no.”
His mouth shifts. “Then yes.”
I study him. “That easy?”
“It should be.”
The words land hard because they are so simple.
It should be.
Transparency should have been the easy thing all along. Saying what happened. Naming who paid. Refusing to build peace out of selective memory and then call it mercy.
I move closer, resting my forehead lightly against his shoulder for a moment.
