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It feels so unnatural to me not to be comforting him. Not to smother him in hugs and hold him and let him cry, but I know it would be more for me than him. He’s scared to show real emotions, and now I know why.

The fact that he’s actually let me get close to him over the past few days is making my head spin now that I know the reasons he keeps his distance from people.

All I want is to help him. To make everything better.

Why am I so fucking useless at this?

Then my gaze moves to the knives he has on his wall.

“What’s this one called?” I ask, pointing to a really long one. The handle is almost the length of the thin blade, and it has jagged teeth.

I don’t look at Lynx, but I can feel his attention drift my way. “It’s a saw.”

“I thought saws were shorter and wider than that?”

“Some are. There are a lot of different types.”

“What do you use it for?”

His voice still sounds thick with pain when he answers, but the words come easier. “Cutting down trees that pose a risk to our houses or the trails.”

There he goes, protecting people again. “What’s this?” I ask, pointing at a shorter, curved blade with a finger ring on the end.

“A karambit. Mostly used for digging out roots.”

“It looks terrifying.”

“It can be.”

“And this one?”

“That’s a hunting knife.” He points to two others. “As are these. I don’t like animals suffering, but it’s not always a clean death. These end things quickly.”

“And this is your cleaver, right?” I point to the knife that I stole when he left it in a tree stump by the crop fields one day.

“Yes.”

“It made me feel badass.”

“A weapon is only as good as the person carrying it.”

I force a light tone that’s at complete odds with how I’m feeling. “Are you calling me a badass or saying that I’m not a badass?”

His lips try for a sad smile, but it’s something. “Maybe one day, we’ll both know.”

“Or maybe you could teach me to be one.” I point at the machete. “Show me how to use it.”

“I mostly use it to clear out the trails and ward off predators.”

“Show me?”

He picks the knife up off the table. It’s like power runs through him just from holding the thing, and the dark energy that was surrounding him melts away.

“You need to find your grip,” he says. “The knife should fit perfectly in your hand and not be too heavy.” He passes the knife over, and I feel guilty for taking it, but as soon as it’s in my hand, I know what he means. This is too heavy for me. The cleaver felt more like an extension of my arm than something hanging off the end of it.

With a heavy swallow, I hold the machete out to him. “This isn’t mine.”

“I gave it to you.”