The Cassian way.
Like even his grief has learned to take up as little space as possible.
“I didn’t know how else to protect you,” he says.
“I know.”
“Every bad thing that ever happened to you —”
“Cassian.” I step toward him. “Look at me.”
He does.
“I don’t need protecting from you,” I say. “I need you. Those are completely different things. I have been trying to tell you that since I was eight years old and you keep deciding you know better.”
Something in his face breaks completely open.
“I saw you,” he says. “In the quad. You looked like I imagine you did before me. Like you did before any of this.
And I thought —”
“Cassian.”
“I thought if I stayed away long enough you’d go back to that. To who you were before I —”
“Stop.” I close the distance between us. “Stop. Listen to me.”
He goes quiet.
“There is no before you,” I say. “There has never been a before you. You moved in next door when I was eight and that was it. Whatever light you saw in that quad — whatever you thought you were setting free —”
I put my hands on his face.
Both of them.
The way he has always held mine.
“That light is because of you,” I say. “Thirteen years of being loved by you made me. Even the hard ways. Even the broken ways. All of it made me. Cassian. You are the reason I know what light is.”
He stares at me.
Something moving through him that I’ve never seen before.
Relief.
Real, total, finally relief.
Like he’s been holding his breath for so long.
“I’m not okay,” he says.
“I know. And you will be. And I’ll be there.”
“Ro —”
“I’ll be there,” I say again. “Every step. Whatever it costs. I’m not going anywhere.”
He looks at me for a long moment.
