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But this moment isn’t mine to take, so I swallow those feelings down for what feels like the hundredth time.

Instead, I’ll meet her where she’s at.

Ellen doesn’t need more silence from a man in a world that has given her too much already. She needs to hear—plainly, without softness or excuse—that her anger is rightful, that her fear is not foolish, and that what’s being done to Aileen is an abomination.

“A woman deserves to be cherished.” The words come measured. “Not handled roughly. Not spoken to wi’ contempt. Not made to fear the person who claims to love her.”

She stares up at me as though some part of her is still listening for the lie.

I take a step closer, careful, keeping my voice for her alone.

“A husband should be her refuge. He should meet her with gentleness when the world is harsh. He should give her steadiness when she is shaken. He should never, never be the reason she flinches.”

The certainty in me is absolute, and I let it show.

“I’d never be the sort of man a woman must endure. I’d sooner live my whole life without a wife.” There’s no bravado in my statement, only the truth I inherited from my father and his father before.

My voice stays low, because this isn’t a declaration meant to dazzle, but a line I’ll never cross. “And I’d sooner perish than put fear in the eyes of the woman who stands beside me.”

Ellen holds my gaze, and there’s something unguarded in it now. Something akin to longing braided with a quiet hurt, as though hearing plain decency spoken aloud is a foreign concept.

“I ken,” she whispers.

Her voice might be small, but her conviction is not. She lifts a hand and sets it over my heart, and the contact means everything to me in that moment.

“I ken ye’re not that sort of man.” It sounds less like reassurance than a hard-won truth. Her throat works once before she adds, “And I mean that… with all of my heart.”

Everything recedes, ordinary sounds thinning into nothing, until there’s only her truth, and the answering ache in my chest that says I’ve no right to squander it.

Footsteps sound from farther down the hall, brisk and impatient, and the moment is broken.

“Ellen,” Róisín calls.

Ellen’s shoulders tighten, duty snapping back into place as if a string has been pulled.

Róisín stops a step away, her gaze moving between us. Whatever question she means to ask never quite forms. Realisation softens her features as she takes in the way Ellen stands, her hand still on my chest.

She leans in, her voice low and kind. “We should move this along before too many whisperin’ wee hens poke their noses into the business of others.”

Then she reaches out and squeezes Ellen’s shoulder, then mine. A small, quelling gesture.

I cover Ellen’s hand with my own where it rests against my chest. “I willnae speak of this. Not to anyone.”

As soon as the promise leaves me, I take my hand away.

Her hand lingers, absent-minded, as if the touch itself has become a kind of steadiness. Then she drops it with visible reluctance and nods once.

“And if it grows too heavy,” I add, before the silence can turn sharp, “come to me.”

There’s a flicker in her face, a brief hesitation, and I don’t give it time to harden into awkwardness.

“If there’s any way I can help,” I say, letting the focus turn where it ought to be, “without puttin’ her at further risk, I wanna ken.”

Ellen’s throat works, but no words come.

She leans in instead, her breath warm against my skin, and presses a brief kiss to my cheek before drawing away.

Without another word, she turns and goes, and I watch her disappear into the passage.