“That’s not true,” she says, fierce and trembling. “It hurts you every time you breathe around it.”
I exhale, slow and steady.
“You asked what humor saved me from,” I say. “This is the answer.”
She tightens her grip on my thigh. I feel the intention to soothe me.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For trusting me with him. With you.”
I close my eyes for a moment.
When I open them, she is there—steady, unflinching, seeing all the pieces I have never let anyone hold.
And somehow… I am not afraid.
Sophia doesn’t move at first.
Then her breath shudders—quiet, as though she’s trying not to disturb anything—and her face crumples further.
Fresh tears spill down her cheeks—not the first, but somehow these hit me harder.
It knocks the air out of me with more force than any blow I ever took in the arena.
She presses her hand to her mouth, shoulders trembling once, twice, as if her body can’t contain what she feels for a story that was never hers to carry.
And gods help me… I can’t look away.
I reach for her, cupping her cheeks and using the heels of my hands to try to stem the tide of her tears. The precious liquid shines on my skin.
Her eyes close at my touch—not flinching, not hiding—just meeting grief head-on the way I never learned to.
More tears fall. I wipe each one with my knuckle, slow, careful, afraid the wrong pressure might break her open too far.
“Sophia,” I say, rough, because that is all I have. “Do not—”
But she is already leaning into my hand, fingers curling around my wrist—gentle at first, then tighter, like she is holding on to something she can’t afford to lose.
Then she lifts my hand.
And she kisses it.
All of it. First the heel of my palm. Then the pad of each fingertip. Soft, reverent, devastating.
My heart stumbles.
No one has ever kissed my hands. Not in gratitude. Not in reverence. Not in mourning for what these hands were made to do.
Something inside me shifts, slow and final as stone cracking.
Her tears fall on my skin. My hand trembles in hers.
Not from weakness.
From being seen.
She pulls me closer without realizing she’s doing it, her forehead coming to rest against my sternum. Her breath shakes against my chest. Her fingers fist in my shirt, holding on like she’s anchoring us both.
The old instinct flickers—make a joke, lighten the mood, smile so she knows I’m fine—but I push it down hard. That’s what the Jester would do. Perform strength instead of admitting weakness. I’m done with that. I just wrap my arms around her and pull her in—not claiming, not comforting the way Marcellus once comforted me.
