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Understatement of the fucking century.

I keep holding his hand, and despite myself, I picture Rowan alone in that room, exhausted, crying, still dragging the bow across the strings because somebody wouldn’t let him stop.

Something dark twists inside my chest. If Vera were still alive, I’d kill her myself.

Again. Again. And fucking again.

Rowan’s eyes find mine, steadier than they have any right to be for someone held together by bandages. “You’d kill for me.”

“Without blinking.”

“Good.” His bruised thumb moves against my knuckles. “Everyone keeps waiting for the part where I finally get scared of you.” A tired breath leaves him. “I stopped being afraid of monsters the day I decided to keep one.”

Something in my chest pulls tight. He says it so simply, like it costs him nothing, like choosing the villain in the room was the easiest thing he has ever done.

“The first year after my mother lost her sight was hard,” I hear myself say.

Rowan turns his head on the pillow, watching me as I turn his hand over in mine.

“She was furious. At everyone. At herself. At walls, furniture, doors. She hated needing help and hated people pretending she was suddenly made of glass.”

I look down at our joined hands, swallowing as an old, familiar helplessness stirs somewhere deep inside me. Back then, there was nothing I could do except watch.

“Most days, she’d disappear into the music room and play for hours. Sometimes it sounded beautiful. Sometimes it sounded angry.” I swallow, remembering those notes drifting through the house long after midnight. “Sometimes it sounded like her heart was breaking.”

Rowan doesn’t say anything. He just stays there, listening.

“Back then, I thought she was trying to get better.” My thumb catches on the edge of a bandage before smoothing it. “Now I think she was trying to remember who she was.”

The words hang between us.

“When you’re blind, people start deciding things for you. What you can do. Where you can go. What your future looks like. Back then, she trusted music more than she trusted people.”

Rowan’s fingers curl around mine, stopping me from letting go. Somehow, that feels like an answer. “I was twelve.”

The words are so quiet I almost miss them. I lift my gaze to find him staring at the ceiling, his head sunk deeper into the pillows while I keep hold of his hand.

“It was market day. Sola convinced Ma and Pa we were old enough to explore on our own.”

A snort escapes me. “You weren’t.”

“We absolutely were.”

“You were twelve! Nah, too young.”

He huffs at that. “So? We were very mature twelve-year-olds. Anyway, we wandered away from my parents. There was a merchant stall near the eastern square. At least I thought she was a merchant, but she wasn’t. She was Vera Orlov. I—I remember telling her I wanted to become a Noctis player. I wouldn’t shut up about it. I was carrying around this terrible practice bow and talking to anyone who’d listen.” His eyes narrow when he catches my huff. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Ciaran…”

I hold his gaze. “I’m just realizing you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Obsessive.”

His mouth falls open, and I don’t even try to look sorry. “That’s a bold statement coming from you. The man who tracked my heart rate for months is calling me obsessive.”