[...]
“You didn’t touch them. You didn’t speak inappropriately. You didn’t stay behind closed doors.”
A pause.
“But you shared a cup of something warm, in a cold, empty hall. With no one else around. You sat with them like…”
She stops herself and a flicker of pain passes behind her eyes.
Then she finishes, softly:
“…like they were yours.”
[redacted1]’s jaw twitches.
[redacted2] steps closer, her tone hardening—not cruel, but unyielding.
“What exactly are you doing, [redacted1]?”
[...]
“Is that what you want, [redacted2]?” he says lowly, voice cracked.
“Do you want me to say it?”
She doesn’t answer. Because she doesn’t need to.
And so—he does.
He steps forward just a little, barely a pace, just enough to move into the edge of firelight.
“Yes. I care for them. Yes, I’m too close. Yes, it started before either of us had the decency to name it. No, I haven’t laid a hand on them. Not in the way you fear.”
He says it clearly.
But then, after a pause—
He looks her in the eye, voice low. Honest.
“But I think about it. I think about them every damn day. Every moment I see them walking down those halls like a blade someone tried to break and failed. I watch them struggle not to unravel, and I watch myself wanting to reach out. And I don’t. I don’t. Because I know what I am.”
